


Treason

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 80,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pulled himself onto the mount and wheeled it around, the three men moving away to give him room. Without a backward glance, he kicked the horse into motion, making his way out of the woods and on his way to being a fugitive. (Contains spoilers up to season 2, episode 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, I'm back with another story after some gentle prompting from past readers (thank you for that). This was started after Episode 2.02, so is canon-compliant up to that point and then diverges hopelessly...hope that doesn't keep folks from enjoying. Also, big thanks to tinadp for being my second set of eyes and catching all of the typos that I missed.

His ribs creaked and ached in a most discomfiting way, but there was no time to think about that now. There was precious little time for him to make his escape so he clamped his jaw down more tightly against the sounds of pain that threatened to alert the guards to their position, resolutely following Porthos as they navigated the confusing labyrinth of tunnels. The larger man was as good as his word and minutes later he’d unerringly led them outside where d’Artagnan got his first breath of fresh air after several long days of captivity. The moon was high in the sky and cast deep shadows around the courtyard, further aiding them in their efforts to remain hidden from prying eyes. They kept to the outside walls where the darkness was deepest, d’Artagnan’s breaths coming now in labored pants as he struggled to keep up with the Musketeer in front of him who seemed to effortlessly blend and prowl through the blackness with a speed and agility the Gascon currently envied.

 

When at last they slipped through a small gate, Porthos turned and barricaded it firmly behind them, grasping the young man’s upper arm as he chivvied them forward, first along the outside walls and then making a dash for the forested area, almost pulling a cry of pain from the Gascon’s lips as his fragile ribcage was jostled with every step. Porthos continued to pull him forward another 100 meters beyond the treeline, where they finally stopped, d’Artagnan leaning over his knees as much as his ribs allowed as he caught his breath. Once he felt like his heart was no longer about to beat a path out of his chest, he looked up into the faces of his friends, Aramis’ with a welcoming grin on his face and Athos’, a sterner expression born of worry. The latter man stepped forward and the other two naturally drew back a step, allowing them a moment of privacy. With a hand on the young man’s shoulder, Athos peered at him in the dim light and asked, “Are you alright?”

 

The intensity of the man’s gaze almost had d’Artagnan turning away, but he forced himself to stand firm as he replied, “I’m fine, Athos.”

 

Athos glanced at Porthos who stepped forward once more as he pointed to the young man’s left side. “Ribs, not sure if they’re broken or just badly bruised.”

 

Athos gave a short nod, returning a pointed look to the Gascon who rolled his eyes at Porthos’ betrayal, “They’re fine, Athos, just bruised, I think. It’s all been just bruises. Apparently they’re too worried about saving me for the hangman to do anything more.”

 

Athos stared at him for several seconds more, seemingly to discern the truth of the young man’s words before he looked away, dropping his head to his chest for a moment as he drew a steadying breath. When he looked up, the soldier had reasserted himself and d’Artagnan found himself instinctively straightening his shoulders. “Aramis, if you please,” Athos asked, his words clipped and precise, and the medic stepped forward. With an apologetic smile, he reached for the Gascon’s shirt and with a last glance at the boy’s face to confirm he had permission to proceed, pulled the hem of the shirt upwards to expose his bruised ribcage. As Aramis expertly pressed on d’Artagnan’s ribs, Athos was busy speaking, “We’ve a horse ready for you and you’ll find provisions in the saddlebags. There’s a map as well and a letter from the Captain which you’ll present to Madame Trémaux. Keep to the back roads and don’t risk a fire. We’ll send word once we’ve cleared your name.”

 

d’Artagnan grimaced and then gasped as Aramis’ fingers found a particularly sore spot, and he reached for the medic’s hand, pulling it away from his flank. “Sorry,” Aramis mumbled, stepping away and nodding to Athos – nothing was broken, although the medic was fairly certain that one or more of the ribs might be cracked.

 

The Gascon turned his glare on the older Musketeer, “I’m not running!”

 

The three men traded looks, communicating silently about the young man’s stubbornness and prideful nature, having feared exactly this reaction. “Lad, there’s nothing else to be done. If you stay, they’ll hang you before we can clear you. We’ll find the evidence but you need to buy us some time,” Porthos pleaded.

 

“Porthos is right, d’Artagnan,” Aramis agreed, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “There is no shame in fleeing so that we may prove your innocence. The real crime would be allowing you to hang for something you didn’t do.”

 

d’Artagnan was clearly torn, looking from one man to the next, eyes finally landing on his mentor. “Athos?” he asked, his voice thin and needy.

 

“Run, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied, his voice hoarse and low. “Please.”

 

The young man swallowed thickly at the anguish in the older man’s face; his mentor was begging him to leave and d’Artagnan found that he could not resist his request. He gave a shaky nod in reply, Porthos clapping him on the back as soon as he’d agreed. He followed them a few feet away where a nervous mount stood waiting for him and he looked at his friends once more, drinking in their faces as though a man lost in the desert. Porthos grasped him firmly in both arms, giving him a slightly gentler version of his bone-jarring hug in deference to his ribs. “Stay safe,” he whispered into the embrace.

 

Aramis was next, pulling him in close and simply holding him for several seconds before pushing him away, still holding onto the Gascon’s arms as he said, “Protect those ribs.” Last came Athos, a man who seldom sought human contact but who was now gripping the young man fiercely, pulling d’Artagnan’s head forward with a hand so it rested in the crook of his neck. Turning his head, he breathed out a quiet plea, “Stay alive.” d’Artagnan nodded and Athos held him for a few moments longer, obviously as unwilling as the boy to part. When they finally did, the Gascon took a last look at his friends as he spoke, “Thank you.” With that, he pulled himself onto the mount and wheeled it around, the three men moving away to give him room. Without a backward glance, he kicked the horse into motion, making his way out of the woods and on his way to being a fugitive.

* * *

Several weeks earlier…

 

d’Artagnan’s face held a broad smile as he crossed the garrison courtyard, seeing his friends already waiting for him at their usual table. The last few months had been challenging, first with the Captain’s refusal to be promoted by the King and thus abandoning his position as Captain of the Musketeers, followed swiftly by Rochefort’s return and installment as the new Captain of the Red Guards, and most recently the experience of having defended his King, only to have the man try to reward him by making him an executioner to a man who’d been promised clemency. Overall, he’d found the experience incredibly distasteful, the King’s act of reneging on his promise a cowardly and dishonorable deed. The others didn’t seem to be as troubled as he was by the event, having learned through experience that the King was an arrogant and immature man, driven by a need for adoration and accolades and possessing a spine that was as flexible as a sapling, making him easy to intimidate and manipulate. d’Artagnan’s refusal to kill the criminal, coupled with the King’s insistence that it was the Musketeers rather than his own will which had led him into trouble, signalled a shifting of the prevailing winds, and it would be a moment that they looked back on, in hindsight, as the point when their fortunes began to change.

As he sat down at the table and helped himself to some food, his three friends greeted him and d’Artagnan thanked his stars once more for his good fortune in finding men as loyal and honorable as these with which to align himself. He would readily admit that the garrison was full of honorable men, but the commitment that existed between these four was unique, a fact that was acknowledged by everyone who crossed their paths. d’Artagnan swallowed a mouthful, watching as Aramis cleaned his pistol, an act that the Gascon would be willing to wager was completely unnecessary. “Have you actually fired it since you cleaned it last?” he asked, a look of mirth on his face.

 

Porthos snorted, matching the grin on the young man’s face as Aramis smiled sweetly, “d’Artagnan, how many times must I tell you…”

 

He was interrupted as Porthos and d’Artagnan spoke together, “Take care of your weapon and it will take care of you.”

 

The men broke out in laughter as they finished, Aramis spluttering in mock indignation at having his words thrown back at him, while Athos graced them with a rare smile at their antics. Treville stood on the balcony outside his office, quietly observing the men and glad to see them finally enjoying themselves. He’d watched as a dark cloud had hovered over them for weeks now as d’Artagnan brooded and the other three worked to cajole, poke and prod him into a better mood. Today, the clear blue skies and bright sunshine of early fall seemed to have accomplished what his friends could not, and the Captain was pleased to see the return of the young man they’d grown to like and admire.

 

When the laughter had died down, he called out to Athos, indicating to the man his desire to see them all in his office. Athos nodded in reply before turning to the rest and a minute later the group were presenting themselves to the Captain. “His Majesty is restless and has decided to travel to Fontainebleau for a hunt. You four will accompany me and six others to the lodge where we’ll overnight, then spend the next two days hoping the King can remain quiet enough to shoot something, before travelling back. Pack what you’ll need for a week away just in case he changes his mind again and wants to stay longer. We’ll depart for the palace in an hour.” The four men ducked their heads in acknowledgement before exiting the office, and moments later their heavy footfalls could be heard on the stairs as they descended.    

 

The men were quick to prepare their things and were ready and waiting, with their horses saddled, by the time Treville joined them. He glanced at the group of men briefly, nodding in satisfaction before mounting his horse and leading them out through the garrison gates. In truth, Treville hated the many potential hazards that presented themselves when the King left the palace. The roads between Paris and Fontainebleau were rutted from previous travellers and surrounded on both sides by trees that could hide a multitude of dangers. There was the need to cross the Seine and the bridge had washed out more times than the Captain cared to recall, not to mention how the waters rose with the rain, flooding their banks and capturing anything in their path. As this thought crossed his mind, Treville gave thanks for the dry, sunny weather – flooding would be one less concern unless things changed dramatically.

 

The ride to Fontainebleau was accomplished before nightfall and, due to the frequency of the King’s hunts during the summer months, the hunting lodge was still fully staffed and provisioned, a rare treat for the Musketeers who were used to little luxury as part of their duties. Their role throughout the journey and the days spent hunting had been to guard the King and his guest, in this instance the Duc de Nemours. As they rode now, on their last day of hunting, Treville reflected on the King’s eagerness to squeeze in as many hunts as he could, before rutting season made it too dangerous to pursue his favorite quarry, the deer. Of course, his Majesty was not satisfied with just any deer, but sought the grand stags who had by now grown their impressive antlers and were prized by the nobles who undertook hunting as a serious pastime. They rode today in the direction indicated by the huntsman, the King chatting happily with the Duc, completely oblivious to the fact that any errant deer in their path would undoubtedly be scared away by the incessant talking and laughter emanating from himself and his guest. The Captain rode at the King’s right side, while the Duc rode on the other, and Treville struggled to keep a pleasant but neutral expression on his face as the noble offered another shallow compliment at the King’s latest statement. Athos and d’Artagnan rode in front of the King, while Porthos and Aramis protected their rear, additional Musketeers deployed both at the head and back of their convey but further out so they could barely be spotted through the trees.

 

As the men at the lead spotted the King’s quarry, they pulled their horses to a standstill, waiting for the royal to approach, Athos trading a look with one of the Musketeers at the front to confirm that no danger lie ahead. As they’d anticipated, the King’s loud laughter had the deer ahead of them lifting its head and, before his Majesty could fire his harquebus, the stag was bounding quickly through the trees, spoiling his shot. A look of disappointment crossed the King’s face, giving the royal the appearance of a pouting child, a thought Treville quickly dismissed from his mind lest it show on his face.

 

Instead, the Captain leaned forward to peer through the trees, confirming that no indication of the deer remained, and reassured the King before the man could fall into one of his whining rants, “A shame, your Majesty. My apologies if my men’s presence startled him.” The Musketeers knew the Captain’s words were false but the King was akin to a spoiled youngster, whose mercurial moods needed to be satiated and soothed, lest the man take his dissatisfaction out on those around him.

 

The Duc added his own words to the mix, calling attention to the King’s earlier success the day prior when he’d downed an impressive 10-point stag, which Treville was certain would end up adorning one of the walls at the palace or the lodge at Fontainebleau. Seemingly placated, the King waved a hand in dismissal, sniffing slightly as he said, “Your men will need to learn to be quieter, Treville. Fortunately there’s no harm done.”

 

With that, the mood shifted again and the King dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, nudging him forward as he turned to the Duc and began regaling him with another story of his previous hunting exploits. Treville caught Athos’ eye up ahead who gave a quick nod before nudging his own horse into motion, the Musketeers ahead and behind him following suit. It was no surprise that no other deer was spotted that day but the King seemed content with his time spent in the woods and was focused on enjoying his dinner by the time they arrived back at the hunting lodge. The Captain sighed in relief at the knowledge that they would depart Fontainebleau the next day, returning to the relative safety of the city walls.

 

The next day they were on the road home early, the King and his guest riding in the carriage, while the Musketeers once more surrounded them. They had been travelling for only an hour, not yet having made their way out of the forest of Fontainebleau when a cry was heard from the inside of the carriage, the vehicle coming to an abrupt stop at the King’s command. Treville pulled his horse close to the conveyance, leaning closer to speak with the royal, “Your Majesty, is everything alright?”

 

The King was standing at the door to the carriage, already pulling it open as he pointed to a spot in the trees, “There, a stag. Get me a weapon.”

 

The Captain sighed internally at the royal’s impulsiveness and knew the man would not be dissuaded, it being easier to allow him to take a shot rather than attempting to convince him to remain in the carriage. He motioned to Athos who in turn waved at Aramis, the sharpshooter bringing his horse forward to hand a loaded and primed harquebus to the Captain. Treville passed the weapon to the King who was already stepping forward, anxious to make his way slowly through the trees. Athos threw a glance to d’Artagnan who had dismounted, passing his reins to Porthos, lest the horse be spooked by the coming shot. He fell in beside and slightly behind the King, Athos and Aramis dismounting behind him as the two moved further away from the group and became lost in the trees. The stag had moved further away but the royal was determined and continued forward, the Gascon glancing briefly behind him to confirm that his two friends were still following them.

 

Gauging the distance between them and the now stationary stag, d’Artagnan whispered lowly, pausing his forward motion as they stood at the edge of the clearing in which the deer was eating. “This is close enough, your Majesty, we don’t want to scare him before you can take your shot.”

 

The King considered for a moment before nodding, bringing the harquebus up and aiming. As his finger closed around the trigger, the deer lifted its head, brown eyes staring directly at them, giving the men a view of the impressive but dangerous antlers that adorned its head. Seconds passed, d’Artagnan watching the beast closely as it sniffed the air, waiting to see if it would move or if the King was going to shoot. The moment was broken as the stag recognized their scent, confirming the danger that now threatened its life. Instinct propelled the animal into motion toward them, the King discharging his weapon in fear and missing the deer as it bounded in their direction. d’Artagnan saw the danger immediately and pushed the royal ahead of him, yelling, “Run, your Majesty!”

 

Sparing a quick look behind him, the Gascon could see the fearsome stag merely meters behind, closing the gap quickly with each bounding step. Ahead, he caught a glimpse of Athos and Aramis, the latter stopping to aim his second harquebus, but it was uncertain whether or not his shot would be in time. Sensing the animal nearly upon them, d’Artagnan threw himself forward, tackling the King to the ground and throwing himself on top of the man. Moments later he felt the punishing force of the stag’s antlers against his left shoulder, pressing himself further into the man below him, determined to protect the royal at all costs. A shot sounded and he was vaguely aware of shouting as the weight was suddenly gone from his left side. Moments later, he felt himself manhandled, rolled away from the King and onto the ground.

 

“Your Majesty,” Athos spoke to the royal, examining him quickly before offering a hand and raising the man to his feet. The man was clearly shaken, his face ashen as he looked down at the Musketeer laying on the ground at his feet.

 

“What happened?” the King asked, eyes darting now between Athos and Aramis before moving to Treville who was just joining them.

 

“The stag attacked, your Majesty. Had it not been for d’Artagnan’s swift actions, you might have been gored by the beast,” Aramis explained, responding politely though he wanted nothing more than to drop to d’Aragnan’s side. “With your permission?” he pointed to the Gascon who still hadn’t made any attempt to move.

 

The King gave a distracted wave of his hand as he turned on Treville, already moving toward the commanding officer. “This is an outrage, Treville. Your man spoiled my shot and allowed the beast to attack us.”

 

A quick glance to Athos, who gave a small shake of his head, disproved the royal’s statement, but arguing with the King did not bode well for one’s lifespan so the Captain merely nodded, doing his best to placate him so he could be removed from the woods and the others could tend their friend in peace. “Come, your Majesty, let’s get you back to your carriage where you’ll be more comfortable.” He led the man away, catching a glimpse of Athos and Aramis dropping to their knees next to their fallen friend as he left.

 

Aramis was already leaning over the young man, tapping one cheek as he attempted to wake the boy. “d’Artagnan, open your eyes for me. Athos is getting worried.” The older man threw a minor glare in his direction, but Aramis merely shrugged unrepentantly.

 

d’Artagnan had only been stunned and his eyes opened immediately to peer up at his two friends, noting their matching looks of worry. “The King?” he asked.

 

"Fine, thanks to you," Aramis answered, having already decided that the man’s ungrateful words didn’t need to be shared at that moment. “Where are you hurt?”

 

The Gascon began to make motions to sit up, only to find Aramis’ hand on his chest pushing him down. Scowling at his friend, he explained, “It will be far easier for you to examine my back if I’m not laying on it.”

 

Understanding dawned in the medic’s eyes and he and Athos each grasped an arm as they gently pulled the young man to a sitting position. Aramis moved behind him while Athos continued to grip the boy’s arm, keeping him steady. Wanting to distract his protégé from a potentially painful examination, Athos questioned, “What happened out there?”

 

d’Artagnan grimaced as he replied, “I think we got too close and the stag caught our scent. The King was slow to shoot and by the time he did, the beast was already moving toward us. It was all I could do to get him running and protect him until you killed it.” Looking around uncertainly, he asked, “Did you kill it?”

 

Athos shook his head, “Aramis will tell you later that the sun was in his eyes, but he missed. Fortunately it was enough to startle the animal into leaving and it ran off.”

 

“A moving target is a difficult one to hit, and I doubt you could have done much better,” Aramis stated tersely as he worried over their youngest. “Doublet off, please,” Aramis ordered, hand already reaching over the young man’s shoulder to tug at the lacing.

 

d’Artagnan batted at his hand and the medic retracted it, only to find Athos’ fingers now unlacing it. “I can do it myself, you know,” the Gascon grumbled, but allowed Athos to continue, and then submitted to his help as the doublet was pulled down and off his left arm, revealing his shoulder and back.

 

Aramis was already reaching into the neck of the young man’s shift, pulling the fabric away from his shoulder before releasing it to tug at the bottom of his shirt instead. d’Artagnan bore the examination quietly, rolling his eyes at his friend’s actions. Finally, he felt the hem of his shirt drop and Aramis moved to his side. “You were exceptionally lucky. Your skin wasn’t pierced and no bones were broken, but you will have some spectacular bruising by tonight.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded, unsurprised by the medic’s findings as he really didn’t feel too bad. “Can you ride?” Athos asked, still concerned about the young man’s health.

 

Another nod had the two men standing and then helping the Gascon to his feet. Athos kept his hand on the boy’s arm for a moment until he was confident that young man was steady, then released him to follow the two back to their horses. Treville was once more on his mount and the King’s complaining could be heard from inside the carriage. The Captain caught Athos’ eye as they approached and received a nod from his lieutenant, confirming that d’Artagnan was alright. He motioned to the men at the front of their convoy and they began to move, the carriage following in their wake, Treville comfortable that the other four would follow and take position behind them. As soon as the King was out of earshot, Porthos called out to d’Artagnan who was being helped onto his horse by Aramis, “You alright?”

 

“I’m fine, Porthos, nothing more than a few bruises,” d’Artagnan grumbled, annoyed at his friends’ overprotectiveness. Porthos glanced to Aramis receiving a nod in return, which did not go unnoticed by the Gascon. “Really?” he threw his hands up in frustration. “Why does no one believe me when I say I’m fine?”

 

Porthos gave him a wide grin as they kicked their horses into motion, the large man sidling up to ride beside the Gascon, “We believe you about a lot of things, just not anything related to your health.”

 

Aramis joined in the teasing, pulling a groan from d’Artagnan as their easy banter began, knowing that it would be a while before the men allowed him to forget his most recent mishap.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan wasn’t certain how much time had passed since he’d fallen unconscious after being left in the street like a pile of rubbish, but it was still dark and he could feel the moisture of the nighttime dew on his face and hair, pulling a shiver from him at the coolness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those folks who have read and commented, and thanks again to tinadp for her proofreading skills. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

Upon arriving at the palace, Treville dismissed his men while he followed the King inside, the royal having requested his presence for a while longer. By the time he arrived at the garrison, it was late into the evening and only a handful of men remained sitting in the courtyard, eating their evening meal by the light of several lanterns. Among them were his best and most troublesome group of four and the Captain waved at the men to follow him upstairs as he walked by. The friends traded looks, wondering why Treville had asked to see them, and headed up the stairs to the man’s office. Porthos closed the door behind them as the Captain placed his cloak and weapons on a side table, rubbing a hand across his face as he peered at the group in front of him.

 

“d’Artagnan, I know that you did nothing wrong, but the King is still upset about what happened during the hunt,” Treville informed them.

 

“d’Artagnan not only did nothing wrong and but should be commended for his quick action, which saved his Majesty’s life,” Athos countered, his voice low and dangerous.

 

Treville pinned him with an exasperated look, “I’m well aware of that, however Rochefort was quick to fan the flames when the King spoke of it and has his Majesty convinced that the only reason they were in danger in the first place was because d’Artagnan allowed them both to get too close.” Porthos’ hands were clenched into fists while Aramis’ jaw was clamped tightly closed, both men eager to defend their youngest but careful of overstepping with their commanding officer.

 

Athos scowled at Treville’s words, sensing that there was more still to come. Sighing deeply, the Captain continued, “d’Artagnan, I’m sorry, but you’ll be removed from duty at the palace for the next couple of weeks. My hope is that this will pass after you’ve been out of the King’s sight for a short while.”

 

d’Artagnan swallowed thickly and looked at Athos who wore a steely gaze. He nodded as he replied, “It’s fine, sir, thank you. Do you have alternative orders for me for tomorrow?” Porthos’ head dropped as he listened to the Gascon doing his best to remain unaffected by the news, realizing that the punishment was doubly cruel; embarrassing because others would know he’d been removed from palace duty and forcing him to be apart from the three of them for the next week.

 

Treville shook his head, “I’ll have something for you by morning muster. Go get some rest now; tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

 

The men nodded and began filing out, Athos at the rear and moving slowly. “There was nothing more to be done?” he asked, pausing at the door.

 

“I’m sorry, Athos. Had Rochefort not shown up, I’m certain the incident would have passed. For some reason, that man seems to hate the Musketeers even more than his predecessor. We’ll need to tread carefully.”

 

Athos put his hat on, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement of the Captain’s words before following the others back downstairs. The three were back at the table where they’d been eating earlier and waited for Athos to join them. “This ain’t right, Athos,” Porthos growled.

 

Aramis placed a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder as he turned to Athos, “Am I correct in assuming that someone intentionally inflamed this situation?”

 

Athos gave a short nod, looking at d’Artagnan. “Rochefort has never been a friend of the Musketeers and he seems to have fixated on you, d’Artagnan. You’ll need to take care.”

 

The Gascon threw his hands up in frustration as he started to pace, “I did nothing wrong.”

 

“We know that, lad, but that Rochefort’s a devil. Clearly, he’s not above twisting things to his advantage,” Porthos cautioned.

 

“And, he’s clearly ingratiated himself with the Queen,” Aramis added with a grimace, recalling the look the man had given her Majesty.

 

“Come, there’s nothing more to be done tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll receive your orders and stay out of trouble while we report to the palace,” Athos declared, placing a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder. “It will only be a week or two and then things will return to normal.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and the four made their way through the garrison gates, intending to tip a glass or two before retiring for the night. Only a couple weeks, the Gascon thought to himself – what could possibly happen in such a short amount of time?

* * *

The next day, d’Artagnan received orders to train at the garrison while the three others made their way to the palace. The day promised to be a boring one and d’Artagnan sighed quietly to himself as he was paired off with another man to spar, watching wistfully as his friends exited through the garrison gates. He put as much effort as he could into his training, but often found his mind wandering to thoughts of his friends and to Rochefort, wondering at why the man had selected him in his quest to dishonor their regiment. By the time that his friends returned late that afternoon, d’Artagnan was nearly desperate with relief, agonizing at the realization that he’d only just passed the first day of many more to still come.

 

It was apparent that he hid his relief at his friends’ return poorly, Porthos taking one look at him and laughing, clapping a hand on his back, “Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad. Who were you paired with today?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a mock shudder as he replied, “Geadreau and Vannier.”

 

Porthos gave a wince as he nodded, all of them being familiar with Geadreau’s reputation as being a particularly strict task-master when it came to proper technique and Vannier unlikely to pull anything but a killing blow, believing that each sparring session should be as realistic as possible. Aramis took a half-step forward, now frowning, “Were you hurt?”

 

The Gascon grinned ruefully, “Just my pride. I may have had a difficult time focusing today.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed at his protégé’s words, “d’Artagnan, we’ve spoken of this…”

 

“I know, head before heart,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “It’s just hard when I feel like there’s a target on my back.”

 

Porthos threw an arm around the young man’s shoulders, pulling him close as he started walking them toward the garrison gates, trusting that the other two would follow. “Don’t worry, lad, you’ve three older brothers to look out for you and Rochefort will have to go through us to get to you.”

 

Aramis smiled at Porthos’ words, wholeheartedly agreeing as they wove their way through the Parisian streets to a nearby tavern. Their evening passed pleasantly, sharing a rich and hearty stew with bread that was only a day old, and Athos paying for a vibrant red wine that was finer than the vintages they normally shared. By the end of the night, the tension had eased from d’Artagnan’s shoulders and he laughed easily as his friends regaled him with tales of the latest gossip from the palace. By the time they left, all of them felt pleasantly flushed from the wine they’d enjoyed and the day’s events had been forgotten.

 

They travelled together for several streets before reaching an intersection of sorts, Athos’ rooms in one direction, while the garrison lay further ahead. The older man gave an inquiring look to d’Artagnan who merely rolled his eyes and grinned, “I’ll be fine, Athos. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

Their gazes travelled to their other two comrades next. Aramis was already wearing a satisfied smile as he tipped his hat and said, “I have a fine lady waiting and will also see you for breakfast.”

 

Porthos watched his friend turn and leave, shaking his head a bit at the man’s antics before explaining. “Card game down by the Seine.” At Athos’ severe look, he added, “Don’t worry, there’ll be some from the Court who I can trust to watch my back.”

 

Athos held Porthos’ gaze for a moment, before giving a short nod, one hand on the man’s shoulder as he said, “Watch yourself.”

 

Porthos’ grin was infectious as he barked out a laugh, “Always.” With that, he was on his way, d’Artagnan also giving a last wave to Athos as each moved in a different direction.

 

The evening had been exactly what he’d needed, the Gascon reflected, as his feet followed the familiar cobblestones back to the garrison. He was by no means looking forward to another week or two of being left behind by his friends, but reasoned that he would be able to manage it alright if he could have their company at the end of each day. His musings had distracted him and he was caught unaware when four men pushed away from a building ahead of him, having stood deep in the shadows so they’d remain unseen until nearly upon them. d’Artagnan slowed his steps, hand resting on his sword in warning as he observed the group, slowing his pace in order to keep several feet between them.

 

“Good evening,” he said evenly, watching as the men spread out across the street, effectively blocking him from passing. “If you’re thinking of robbing me, you should know that I’m a Musketeer and have nothing of value to offer you. I suggest you move aside and let me pass.” Meaningfully, his right hand tapped the hilt of his sword, drawing attention to it and preparing to free the blade from its sheath.

 

One of the men spit on the ground before looking back at the Gascon. “Musketeer,” he sneered with disdain, “that don’t mean nothin’ to us. You’ll bleed just the same.” With those words, the men surged forward, d’Artagnan missing his chance to pull his sword and taking a clumsy step back, narrowly avoiding a meaty fist aimed for his head. Before he could fully recover, another man was on him, striking his face with a powerful right hook that had his head snapping painfully to the side, only to stumble into the arms of another attacker. The man grabbed his arm, another advancing to capture the Gascon’s other arm, and the two held him as a third stepped forward to land a punishing strike to the young man’s stomach, his breath fleeing his body in one great exhale. He wasn’t even allowed a moment to catch his breath before another series of blows attacked his ribs, leaving him slumped boneless in his attackers’ arms, now the only thing keeping him upright. The man who’d spoken earlier tangled his fingers in d’Artagnan’s hair, jerking his face up viciously as he leaned forward to hiss, “Put the King in danger again and you’ll have more than a few bruises to show for it.”

 

The hand was removed and d’Artagnan’s head slumped to his chest once more, mind reeling from the words that had been spoken. Before he could give them any further thought, he was dropped to the ground and a booted foot collided with his head, causing it to bounce once against the cobblestones before he fell limp and silent. As the four walked away from the bloodied man, they laughed at how easy it had been to get the Musketeer alone and teach him a painful lesson.

 

d’Artagnan wasn’t certain how much time had passed since he’d fallen unconscious after being left in the street like a pile of rubbish, but it was still dark and he could feel the moisture of the nighttime dew on his face and hair, pulling a shiver from him at the coolness. His mind felt fuzzy and his vision blurred as he blinked repeatedly trying to bring into the focus the cobblestones that lay beneath his head. He moved a clumsy hand and rolled slightly to push himself up, accomplishing a partially upright position with his head handing low between shoulders, his body canted to one side on one shaky arm. The change in elevation made things sway for a few seconds before righting themselves, and he drew a deep breath, hoping to clear his mind and vision. The action awakened the pain in his ribs and he moved his free hand to his left side, groaning softly at the tenderness he felt there. Allowing himself several minutes to recover himself, he pushed his back against the closest building and slumped against it as he gathered his reserves in order to stand and make his way home.

 

When he felt ready, he supported himself against the wall at his back, gaining his feet and taking a moment to adjust to being vertical. His head throbbed dully in time with the beat of his heart, but d’Artagnan pushed away from the wall, making slow, stumbling progress in the direction of the garrison. At the gates, the men on guard duty waved, a gesture he clumsily returned, imagining that he must look as though returning from a night of heavy drinking. But he cared little right now of what others might think, slowly losing his ability to put one foot in front of the other and he leaned heavily on the banister as he ascended the stairs and crossed the walkway that led to his room. Gratefully, he sank against the door after closing it behind him, taking cautious steps by the moonlight that illuminated the room to light the candle by his bed.

 

Easing his aching body onto the bed, he toed off both boots and then unlaced his doublet, letting it slip off his arms and onto the mattress behind him. Removing his shirt was a far more painful process that had him gasping and bending forward to awkwardly pull the shirt over his head and free from his arms. Looking down, he saw the marks of his earlier fight painted on his body, the left side already darkening into deep bruising. Taking a steadying breath, he pressed fingers against his ribcage and was relieved to find no shifting bones, something that he’d already surmised based on his pain level, but which needed to be confirmed regardless. He looked wearily at the basin of water that sat across the room, longing to at least wash his hands and face before laying down to sleep, but his body’s need for rest was too great. Allowing a gentle sigh to escape, he lowered himself carefully onto his uninjured side, reaching behind to tug the blanket partially over himself, too sore and tired to do anything more. Allowing his eyes to slip closed, he gratefully sank into sleep’s welcome embrace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seconds later he was out of earshot, wondering at the strange man who’d paid him so handsomely to trick the Musketeer and already looking forward to how he’d brag about his escapades to his friends in the Court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments and speculation after the last chapter. I'd like to say things improve in this one, but...well, you'll see. Thanks to tinadp once again for keeping my typos to a minimum. Hope you enjoy!

He’d spent a poor night, desperately craving sleep but waking with every shift of his body that placed pressure on his tender ribs or head. At least his vision was no longer blurred, he reasoned with himself, as he pushed up to a sitting position, swinging his legs slowly to hang off the side of the bed. Bracing himself with an arm, he rubbed a hand carefully across his face, wincing as the touch aggravated the tight feeling across his left cheekbone where the skin was swollen and bruised. Further up, he gingerly felt around the knot that sat on his temple and cringed at how he’d be unable to hide the results of the trouble he’d been in from his friends. He stood up and made his way to the basin that sat on a table by the window, and poured in a measure of water so he could wash his hands and face. As he carefully dabbed his face dry, he recalled the words that his attackers had spat at him as they’d left. No matter how he racked is brain, he could not fathom what connection these men might have to the King. He hadn’t seen much of the men, but what he could remember of their dress had been unremarkable, the only thing of note the fact that they carried weapons similar to his own, suggesting the men were no normal thugs.

 

As the sun rose higher, d’Artagnan realized he couldn’t put off leaving his room any longer and struggled into his shirt, doublet and boots before snagging his weapons on the way out. He’d been correct that the others would be waiting for him and he spied them from the top of the landing as he steeled himself to descend the stairs, his left arm pressed against his side as he forced himself to keep any signs of pain from his face. Athos and Aramis had their backs to him as he approached and he fixed a smile on his face as he met Porthos’ eyes, “Morning.”

 

The larger man looked up at his greeting, the easy grin that had been there falling away as he took in the Gascon’s appearance. He stood immediately, leaning across the table as he asked, “What the devil happened to you?”

 

Athos and Aramis turned at the Musketeer’s question and d’Artagnan braced himself for their reactions. The medic’s response was nearly as quick as Porthos’ and, a moment later, d’Artagnan found himself being pushed to sit down, Aramis crouching down on his haunches in front of him, one hand on the Gascon’s face, turning it toward the light to examine his damaged left side. As Aramis worked, Athos pinned the young man with a look of concern, ”Who did this to you?”

 

d’Artagnan gave an aborted shrug, stopping the motion as it tugged on his ribs, Aramis’ keen eyes noticing the action immediately, sending the man’s fingers tugging at the lacing on his doublet. The Gascon stifled a sigh at the unwanted attention as he resigned himself to be checked over, knowing that he would be unable to escape the men’s scrutiny until they were satisfied that he was alright. “Four men, I’m not sure who they were.” He broke off as Aramis’ probing fingers found an especially sensitive spot on his side, causing the medic to pull his shirt up higher and expose the extent of the bruising to his friends.

 

Aramis scowled at the sight but continued anyway, finally letting the shirt to drop and rising to his feet. “You’re lucky, your ribs are just badly bruised.”

 

“I know and would have told you the same if you had given me the chance,” d’Artagnan huffed as he pulled his doublet back on, nodding in gratitude when Aramis helped pull the garment up and onto his left arm and shoulder. Athos was still looking at him impatiently so the Gascon continued his story, “There’s really not much to tell. They didn’t try to rob me and didn’t say much, just something about putting the King in danger.” He looked down and shook his head slowly, fighting against the ache in his head. Looking back up at Athos, he asked, “What does it mean?”

 

Athos shared a meaningful look with the other two, apparently all of them coming to the same conclusion. d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted from one man to the next, a look of confusion on his face as the silence stretched. “What?” he finally asked, exasperated.

 

“It’s possible this has something to do with your recent protection of the King,” Aramis stated delicately, recognizing the sensitivity of his statement.

 

d’Artagnan looked to his mentor to see the truth of the sharpshooter’s words and Athos gave a small nod, “It seems reasonable. Why else would someone give you such a warning?” Noting the time, he continued, “We should report this to Treville.”

 

Porthos motioned toward the balcony where the Captain had just appeared, “Looks like we have our chance.”

 

Aramis and Athos turned to see Treville waving a hand toward them, beckoning them to come up. The two of them led the way, Porthos coming around from the other side of the table to fall in beside d’Artagnan, placing an encouraging hand on one shoulder as they walked. The Captain was in his chair when the men entered his office, and he leaned on one elbow as he took in the sight of the battered Gascon in front of him. After a half-minute of silence, he spoke, “You were in a fight.” The words were a statement of fact, rather than a question, making Athos raise a questioning eyebrow that the man seemed so well informed. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he went on, “I was summoned to the palace this morning to stand before the King and Rochefort, where I was informed that one of my men had challenged four Red Guards to a duel. You were mentioned by name.”

 

d’Artagnan’s ire flared in response to the Captain’s words and he was already spluttering as Porthos put a hand on the Gascon’s arm, giving a minor shake of his head to keep him quiet. Athos threw him a grateful look before he addressed Treville, “Captain, d’Artagnan was attacked, unprovoked, and the men did not identify themselves as Red Guards.” He glanced at d’Artagnan to confirm the accuracy of his words and received a short nod in reply. “It is d’Artagnan who is the injured party here and we were on our way to report last night’s events when you summoned us.”

 

The Captain watched the men in front of him, Athos falling quiet while Porthos’ hand remained where it was, grounding the young man who was clearly still seething at the accusation. He trusted the words of his men, but the position he was in was tenuous, Rochefort having ingratiated himself with the royal couple through a paradoxical combination of brutal acts and charming words. These, combined with the perceived acts of disloyalty performed by himself and d’Artagnan, made his a much weaker hand and they would all need to tread carefully to avoid lasting consequences. “Alright,” he finally breathed out. “I believe you but,” he paused, pinning Athos with a stern look, “Rochefort currently has the King’s favor. It will be difficult for us to disprove his accusations since it will be the Red Guards’ words against ours. d’Artagnan,” he looked to the young man, “did they identify themselves or wear the uniforms of their regiment?”

 

“No,” the Gascon shook his head vehemently, “I had no idea who they were and if they were Red Guards, they hid their identities carefully. The only indication that they might be soldiers were the weapons they wore.”

 

Treville nodded, the knowledge of what he needed to do next weighing heavily. “Athos, Aramis, Porthos, you are still on duty at the palace and you need to leave now if you are to report on time. d’Artagnan, I’m sorry, but until things resolve themselves, I’m restricting you to the garrison.” He raised a hand to stay the arguments the men were about to voice. “It’s the best way for us to keep you safe for now. If you’re here, Rochefort won’t be able to accuse you of anything more.”

 

The men reluctantly agreed and the Captain watched the minute relaxation in the soldiers standing in front of him, recognizing the shift from hostility to acceptance. “d’Artagnan, are you fit to train?”

 

Aramis took a half-step forward, answering before the young man could, “I recommend some time with the musket, Captain. His aim can only benefit from the chance for focused practice.”

 

Treville nodded in understanding, taking the suggestion to mean that the boy was injured in some manner that made sword work and wrestling poor choices. “Alright, d’Artagnan, you’ll be practicing with Boudreau and Ménard today. They’re both decent shots and can help you refine your skills.” d’Artagnan was obviously unhappy but a squeeze of Porthos’ hand on his arm had him tilting his head in acknowledgement, Aramis leading the way out as they were dismissed.

 

d’Artagnan drew breath to speak as soon as the door had closed behind them, but Porthos still gripped his arm and pulled him forward, descending the stairs down to the courtyard. They moved over to one side, under the overhang and out of prying eyes. “This can’t be allowed to continue,” Aramis spoke lowly, his words only for the three men around him.

 

Porthos nodded, the anger at the young man’s beating plainly showing on his face, “Rochefort’s gone too far this time. Setting his cowardly red guards on the boy while he’s alone – like hounds after the fox.”

 

Athos had been eerily quiet, all of them knowing that he would take the attack on d’Artagnan personally. “The Captain’s suggestion is wise; it will be easier for us to protect you here.”

 

“I’m not some helpless maiden needing protection, Athos,” d’Artagnan countered hotly, frustrated at the web of deceit that Rochefort seemed to be weaving around him.

 

The glare he received from Athos was enough to silence any further arguments and the older man softened his words as he explained, “We are fully aware of your capabilities, d’Artagnan, but we are also aware of the way in which politics can cast even a saint in the role of abject sinner. The King’s favour is finicky and fleeting and, while you enjoyed that position once, the tides have now turned against us. That’s not to say they can’t be reversed, but we must choose our actions carefully. Rochefort has proven himself to be a dangerous and powerful adversary.”

 

Porthos and Aramis exchanged brief grins at the man’s words, before the former spoke, “Can’t remember the last time he spoke that much in one breath. That’s how you know things are serious.” He winked at d’Artagnan as he spoke, pulling a half-smile from the younger man as had been his intention. Athos merely rolled his eyes but didn’t dispute his words, grateful at how the men had lightened the dark mood that had fallen over them.

 

“We need to be on our way now if we’re to have any chance of reporting on time,” Aramis pointed out, just as unwilling as the other two to leave their youngest alone, but aware of what Treville would do if they were late. “Don’t do anything to aggravate those ribs.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and then threw Porthos’ a grateful smile at the comforting hand that rested on his shoulder for a couple moments as the larger man walked by. Athos turned to the Gascon, taking a deep breath, concern welling again at the thought of not being at the boy’s side to protect him while they were on duty. In a rare show of affection, he reached a hand forward to grasp the nape of d’Artagnan’s neck and spoke softly as he pulled him gently forward, “Keep your wits about you today. The Cardinal’s reach was long and Rochefort’s is proving to be just as troublesome.”

 

The Gascon nodded, touched by the caring gesture and genuine worry on his mentor’s face. Athos released him and strode away quickly, catching up to the other two who were already nearing the garrison gates. Once the men were out of sight, d’Artagnan let out a frustrated huff as he faced yet another day of boredom, now overshadowed by the accusations hanging over his head.

* * *

After spending the morning practicing his musket skills with Boudreau and Ménard, d’Artagnan understood the wisdom of Aramis’ suggestion, the ability to rest the long-barrelled weapon while firing it ensuring that none of the weight pulled on his sore ribcage. Smiling as he now cleaned the musket, he reflected on the fact that his brothers were looking out for him even when not physically there. As his hands moved through the practiced motions with ease, he allowed his mind to drift, wondering what his friends were doing. Duty at the palace was typically fairly monotonous, but he envied them despite that fact, chafing at his enforced confinement within the garrison walls. Then there was the issue of Rochefort’s machinations and d’Artagnan wondered, not for the first time, if the man might successfully blacken the reputation of the Musketeers to the point where they might all be dismissed. The thought caused a shiver of discomfort to travel along the Gascon’s spine, and he forced himself to turn his mind away from such thoughts, reminding himself to trust in the abilities of the Captain and his friends to outmanoeuver the other man. Putting the finishing touches on the now pristine musket, d’Artagnan’s gaze drifted to the table where he and his friends normally ate, the benches currently occupied by a few stragglers who were eating a late meal. Before he could make a decision about what to do next, a low whistle from the direction of the garrison gates caught his attention and his head snapped around to follow the sound. A young boy stood just inside the gates and, looking around, the Gascon realized that no one else seemed to have noticed. Frowning at the fact that the boy had managed to walk in unseen, d’Artagnan lowered the musket to the ground and stood, wandering over slowly, not wanting to startle the boy.

 

As he got closer, the Gascon could see that their young interloper was slightly built and dirty, the clothes he wore a couple sizes too small, and he’d hazard a guess that the boy was likely more familiar with Court of Miracles than the better-maintained sections of the city. Hooking his fingers into his belt, d’Artagnan came to a stop several feet away from the boy, noting the look of trepidation on the young man’s face. “Hello,” he said, pitching his voice lowly to be as unthreatening as possible. “Can I help you with something?”

 

The boy’s eyes darted around the garrison courtyard and d’Artagnan looked over his shoulder, realizing that some of the men at the table had noticed them and were now looking in their direction. Affixing an easy smile to his face, he waved a hand in their direction, letting them know that everything was fine. When he turned back to face the boy, he seemed ready to speak, peering closely at the Musketeer in front of him. “I’ve a message for d’Artagnan.”

 

The Gascon frowned at the boy’s words, uncertain of who would have sent a small child to deliver a message, and fearing at once that it might have something to do with his friends. “I’m d’Artagnan. What’s the message?”

 

The boy shook his head, “I’m supposed to bring you.” At d’Artagnan’s scowl, he went on, “To Madame Bonacieux. She said she needs to see you, urgent like.”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip, recalling clearly Treville’s earlier orders that he was to stay within the walls of the garrison. “Alright,” he nodded, “I just need to speak with my Captain and then we can go.”

 

“No,” the boy seemed agitated, “I was supposed to be back by now. I got lost and couldn’t find the garrison, and now I won’t get paid.” The child looked close to tears and d’Artagnan stepped closer, intending to lay a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, but he moved backwards skittishly, too distrustful to allow the touch.

 

“Look, I just need to tell someone where I’m going,” the Gascon reasoned. “If Madame Bonacieux won’t pay you, I will.”

 

The boy shook his head and began to retreat through the garrison gates, d’Artagnan torn now between following the child and speaking to Treville. “Hold on, just wait,” he called after the boy, taking a few steps to follow him, but the child was already slipping into the throng of people on the busy street. Sighing, d’Artagnan cursed his luck but threw himself into a run so he could catch up with the boy, already anticipating the dressing-down he’d receive from the Captain upon his return. The crowded streets kept the young man constantly a step or two behind the child, who threw the occasional glance over his shoulder to confirm the Musketeer still followed, but refused to slow his pace so the man could fully catch up. They moved gradually further away from the garrison and d’Artagnan was starting to wonder where exactly they were heading, beginning to have his doubts about the child who’d led him away. Two steps ahead, the boy ducked into an alley to the right and the Gascon followed, stopping at its entrance to note the boy standing half-way down its length, waiting for him.

 

Scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair, d’Artagnan took a deep breath as he moved forward slowly. “What’s going on here? Where’s Madame Bonacieux?” The child shrugged and allowed the Musketeer to continue approaching. “ _Was_ there a message from Madame Bonacieux?” Another shrug was his only reply and the Gascon noted how the boy’s face had shifted from fear to a smirk, making his senses prickle sharply at the realization that someone had lured him away from the garrison. As he was about to reach a hand forward to grab the child’s shoulder, determined to find out who had hired the boy and why, a sound from behind alerted him to another’s presence. He saw the child’s eyes dart to a point behind him, and began to turn, his movement halted abruptly as something hard impacted with his skull, causing consciousness to flee.

 

The child grinned at the fallen Musketeer at his feet, looking back at the man who now towered over them both. Extending a grubby hand, he gratefully curled his fingers around the coins that were deposited there. As he ran out of the alley he could hear the man issuing orders to the men who’d accompanied him, “Put this over his head and bind his arms and legs. I’ll bring the carriage up so you can load him in.” Seconds later he was out of earshot, wondering at the strange man who’d paid him so handsomely to trick the Musketeer and already looking forward to how he’d brag about his escapades to his friends in the Court. Fate had smiled on him that day, and if the Musketeer was stupid enough to get caught, that was his problem. With those thoughts, the child slowed his pace and set his sights on an unsuspecting man ahead of him who’d been too foolish to hide his purse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man grinned dispassionately at the boy at his feet, noting how his face was screwed up in pain, “They said alive, but no one said anything about what condition you had to be in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to follow along with this story and for the lovely comments folks have left. I love hearing your thoughts and hope you enjoy this next chapter.

It had been a long, tedious day and, with the additional threat now hanging over their youngest, the three Musketeers were more than a little anxious to return to the garrison and confirm that the Gascon was safe. It was past time for the evening meal, the men having been delayed leaving when a particularly obnoxious courtier had insisted on regaling the King with exploits from his most recent hunt, the royal hanging on his every word, despite the lateness of the hour. By the time they’d been dismissed, it had taken all of their considerable resolve to bow politely before turning and leaving so they could hurry back.

 

As they entered the garrison courtyard, they were surprised to see that d’Artagnan was nowhere in sight. Although they hadn’t expected the boy to delay his evening meal, they had anticipated that he’d be waiting for them at their usual table. Trading glances, they split up, Porthos heading for the kitchen to ask if Serge had seen the boy, Aramis heading for the Gascon’s room, while Athos made his way upstairs to Treville’s office. The older man knocked and waited for permission to enter, the Captain looking up at him in surprise as he stood in front of the man’s desk. Noticing the expectant look on Treville’s face, Athos questioned, “I was wondering if you have any idea where d’Artagnan might be?”

 

The Captain’s brow furrowed in confusion, “Last I saw, he was cleaning his musket after shooting drills.” Treville’s eyes narrowed as he considered the older man, wondering if Athos truly had reason to be concerned or if his fears were making him paranoid. “Is there something I should know?” he asked, learning back in his chair.

 

Athos took a breath before answering, “Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

 

“Then why are you in my office, Athos?” Treville pushed, knowing fully that his lieutenant would not be asking him about the boy’s whereabouts unless something of note had occurred.

 

Athos looked uncomfortable as he admitted, “d’Artagnan wasn’t downstairs when we arrived. We thought it strange that he wasn’t waiting for us.”

 

While others may have dismissed Athos’ words as ridiculous, worrying simply because the boy hadn’t patiently awaited the men’s return, Treville understood that these four were different and had little doubt that after a long day apart, the Gascon would have waited all night, if necessary, for his friends’ return. He gave a short nod as he stood, “The others?”

 

“Checking the kitchen and d’Artagnan’s room,” Athos replied, turning to lead the way out of the Captain’s office. The two descended to the courtyard together, Porthos already waiting for them and giving a shake of his head to indicate that he had no additional information to share.

 

Above, they could hear Aramis’ footfalls and he soon joined them, the look of panic clear on his face as he observed the three men waiting for him. “No sign of him,” Aramis voiced what the men had already surmised. “Now what?”

 

“We’ll start with Boudreau and Ménard and see what they can tell us,” Athos stated, receiving a nod of approval from the Captain to continue. “Check with the men who were guarding the gates today…” he trailed off, glancing at Treville to supply the names.

 

“Fouquet and Thierry,” the Captain interjected.

 

“And see if they saw anything. We’ll need to check the rest of the garrison to make sure he’s not still here somewhere and talk with anyone else who’s around and may have seen something.” Athos turned his gaze once more to Treville to see if the man had anything further to add. When the Captain remained silent, he tilted his head at his two friends and they once more divided, each taking one of the tasks Athos had outlined.

 

Less than an hour later, the men had reunited, this time meeting in the Captain’s office, Treville having pulled out his good brandy and poured each man a hefty dose. The results of their investigation had produced little information, Fouquet and Thierry claiming that they hadn’t seen the Gascon, although they’d left their posts for a few minutes to break up a fight outside the garrison gates and admitted it might be possible that the man had left during that time. d’Artagnan’s sparring partners had been similarly unhelpful, indicating they’d parted ways after a morning of shooting, the young man having looked fatigued so they’d left him to rest for the afternoon. A thorough search of the garrison had revealed nothing and it was painfully clear that where ever the young man was, it was not here.

 

Porthos gripped his brandy glass tightly and Aramis winced internally with the fear that the man might actually crush it within his grasp. “So what do we do now?” the large man asked, completely unaware of the sharpshooter’s scrutiny.

 

“We have to assume that this is connected somehow with everything else that’s been happening,” Treville stated, thinking out loud.

 

“Rochefort will have answers for us,” Athos hissed lowly, his tone and demeanor a warning of the fury that boiled beneath the surface.

 

Treville nodded, “Probably, but you can’t just confront him. Whatever feelings you have about the man, you must admit that he’s smart and will have distanced himself from anything that points to his involvement.”

 

“We could follow him?” Aramis offered, recognizing the likely futility of the action, but struggling to come up with any other ideas.

 

The Captain shook his head, “No. We can’t do anything that would give the man more reason to complain about us to the King.” Sighing deeply, he scrubbed a hand across his face as he confessed, “I’m afraid that we’ll have to wait for him to make the next move.”

 

Porthos’ growled lowly and Aramis was already moving to place a hand on Athos’ chest as the man turned aggressively toward Treville. Aborting his movement and swallowing, Athos gave Aramis a short nod, indicating he understood and waited for the medic to remove his hand. “Captain, we cannot just wait for something more to happen. d’Artagnan could be hurt.” He stopped again, not allowing himself to give voice to his real fears: _he could be dead_.

 

Glancing at Athos, Porthos suggested, “Let me see what I can find out through my sources at the Court.”

 

“And we can conduct a quiet search of the streets on our own, although it would be far more efficient if there were more of us,” Aramis added.

 

Athos looked at both men gratefully, while Treville observed the three in front of him. He could clearly see the tension in their bodies and knew that they would not willingly walk away from their friend, no matter how reasonable the option might seem. Finally, he gave a nod to indicate his permission. “Too many Musketeers searching would seem odd but you can take Fouquet and Thierry out with you in the morning. Porthos, see what you can find out through your contacts, but keep things quiet. If someone took him, we don’t want to spook them into doing anything drastic.”

 

“Thank you, Captain,” Athos responded quietly in appreciation of the man’s support.

 

“Go, find him, but be careful,” Treville replied, watching as the men filed out of the room. He reached for the bottle of brandy, pouring a healthy measure before tossing it back in its entirety. As the fiery liquid burned its way down to his stomach, he tried to convince himself that the queasiness he felt was because of the alcohol rather than the dread he felt for the missing man. 

* * *

The first sense that returned to him was smell, his nose crinkling in disgust without his awareness at the cloying scent of waste and decay that seemed to cling to the air around him. Next came his hearing, and he could discern the sound of ragged breaths, overlaying the much quieter sound of running water, which suggested to his foggy brain that the latter was somewhat further away. When a groan reached his ears, it surprised him and he lay without moving, waiting for the sound to repeat. Upon drawing a deeper breath, he heard the moan once more, this time feeling the corresponding timbre echo within his chest along with the realization that the sound came from him. With this new awareness, feeling came rushing back and he gasped at the ache in his side and the drum that pounded in his skull, pulling another groan from his throat as he grasped that he’d suffered a second head wound in less than two days.  The realization opened a floodgate of memories and he recalled next how he’d been tricked into leaving the garrison and drawn far enough away so that he might be captured and brought here…wherever _here_ was. As much as his body ached, his need to understand his situation was greater than his desire to stay still, so with a shaky exhale, he pushed his heavy eyelids open and blinked to bring his surroundings into focus.

 

The sight that greeted him did nothing to bolster his confidence, the space around him heavily shadowed, his only light coming in through the cracks between the crudely hewn slats of wood that made up the walls and roof. The space was not overly large and d’Artagnan imagined that it could have once been used as someone’s workshop, the space far too small to house any animals. As he listened carefully, he was struck again by the silence around him, interrupted only by the water he’d heard earlier, suggesting he’d been moved beyond the walls of the city. The ground beneath his cheek was hard-packed dirt and he decided that it was time to lift himself up to at least a seated position. As he shifted himself, he was pleasantly surprised to find that his wrists were free, although his ankles were bound together by leg irons, a short length of chain between them, which would substantially limit his movements. Pushing himself to lean against the wall at his back, his scrubbed his hands across his face and hair, letting them drop to his lap once he was done. He took a second look around now that he was sitting upright, and noted the darkly stained ground a few feet away from him, where a furrow had been dug into the ground and disappeared under one wall of his prison. Suddenly the disgusting smell made sense and he realized that he was locked in what used to be someone’s butchering shed, the trough used to carry the blood away and outside where it was likely buried deep in the ground so as not to attract predators.

 

The thought had him gagging as the combination of the powerful smell and his second head injury made his belly churn and, moments later, had him turning his head to vomit weakly, unable to control the sickness that spewed forward. The bout had him shaking and covered in cool sweat, as the pain in his ribs and head spiked with the force of his stomach’s contractions. He spit weakly to rid his mouth of the sour taste and sagged against the wall, tipping his head back as he closed his eyes. For several minutes, he focused on slowing his breathing, inhaling through his mouth to avoid the stench that surrounded him. When he felt like he had control over his nausea, he wiped a sleeve across his face to remove the sticky sweat that was drying there and opened his eyes again. The severity of his situation was beginning to take hold and, if he had truly been taken into the countryside, it would make it doubly difficult for his friends to find him. He had no doubt that they would be looking for him as soon as they found him missing, but knew he couldn’t just wait for rescue; instead, he would need to do what he could to escape and return to the city. He pushed his way to his feet, steadying himself with a hand against the wall as he waited for the black spots in front of his eyes to recede. When he was comfortable that his first step wouldn’t bring him to the ground, he took a tentative step, testing the range of motion the chain between his ankles allowed. His gait was awkward but with care he was able to make his way over to the single door which, sadly, looked like the sturdiest part of the building that held him. He pulled on the handle, then tried pushing, neither action providing any indication that he would be able to exit through it. Knocking his shoulder against it only had him gasping in pain as his ribs protested the action and had him slumping down to the ground in defeat. Pulling his legs toward his body, he rested his arms on his knees, settling down to wait with the hope that whoever had kidnapped him hadn’t done so with the intention of imprisoning him and leaving him to die. 

* * *

He was startled awake by a loud pounding on the door at his back, and he jerked forward as a voice shouted at him to move to the wall furthest from the door. This was the opportunity he’d been hoping for and he quickly pushed himself to his feet, feeling his way forward with a hand against the wall as his vision tunneled and dimmed before finally settling into something more coherent.

 

“Are you away from the door?” the voice from outside called.

 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan croaked, shocked at how hoarse his voice sounded, suggesting that he’d been without water for quite some time. As he watched, the door was pushed open, a face peering around to confirm the prisoner’s location before opening widely to allow the man entrance. He watched d’Artagnan warily as he advanced a couple of steps into the room, laying down a bowl filled with water along with a small crust of bread. Seeing the man’s intention to leave again, d’Artagnan called to him, “Wait, who are you? Why have you taken me?”

 

The man observed the Gascon for a moment before grinning widely, “I’m the man who’s gettin’ paid to keep you alive.”

 

d’Artagnan scowled at the cryptic reply, “Paid by whom?”

 

“That’s none of your business.” The man turned back toward the door to leave as the Gascon weighed his options. The man was several feet away and it was unlikely that he could cross the space between them in time, but he had no idea when he’d have another chance so he needed to take advantage of every opportunity. Decision made, d’Artagnan pushed himself away from the wall, moving as quickly as his chains allowed, but the man had been expecting the Gascon to try something. Turning swiftly, he brought up the two-foot length of wood that he’d hidden beneath his cloak, waiting a moment until the young man’s staggering steps brought him into range, and then swung it viciously, bringing the boy immediately to his knees. A follow-up blow struck the Gascon’s sternum and had him dropping to his side, gulping for air. The man grinned dispassionately at the boy at his feet, noting how his face was screwed up in pain, “They said alive, but no one said anything about what condition you had to be in.” With those words, he turned and left, the door slamming solidly behind him as d’Artagnan lay gasping on the ground.

 

The other man’s blows had been delivered with such force and suddenness that he’d had no opportunity to prepare, the shock of the hits driving the breath from his body and paralyzing his diaphragm for several long moments, making him fight to draw breath. While he knew that his escape attempt was a long-shot, he was stunned at how spectacularly he’d failed, apparently playing into his captor’s hands and managing to add more injuries to his growing list. He placed a hand on the ground, pushing himself upright, breathing slowly through his mouth as the nausea flared again at his most recent mistreatment. When his stomach had settled, he crawled over to the food and water he’d been left, eyeing the old bread critically and reaching for the bowl of water instead. He studiously ignored the way his hand trembled, telling himself that it just due to a lack of food, recalling now that he’d missed lunch and, depending on how long he’d been in captivity, likely missed dinner as well. He tipped the bowl to his lips, relishing the cool, sweet liquid as it trickled down his throat. Common sense told him he should ration the live-saving fluid, but his thirst burned sharply and he found himself tipping the bowl to get every last drop before placing it back on the ground. He knew that he might come to regret his decision later, but for now he felt better as the taste of sickness was gone from his mouth and he felt somewhat refreshed. He stared at the bread, considering whether or not to eat it when he realized that his vision was wavering, no longer able to clearly discern the shape of the crust he’d been given. d’Artagnan shuddered as he put a hand on the ground, blinking rapidly, then giving his head a gentle shake, but the world around him continued to soften and tilt out of focus. Moments later he was vaguely aware of falling to his side, eyes closing of their own volition as he lost his hold on consciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three turned in the direction of the garrison, naturally falling into step, positioned so closely that their shoulders bumped and rubbed every few steps, offering some solace as they tried to accept the loss of their fourth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's continuing to read, leave kudos and comment. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

They’d spent several hours traipsing through some of the seedier streets and taverns, Porthos having gone off on his own to get his friends within the Court to do their own digging around for information or the location of their missing fourth. It was well past midnight when Aramis finally convinced Athos to stop for the night, the man’s face wearing a harsh glower that matched his progressively worsening mood, until it reached the point that Aramis feared the older man might get himself shot because of his abrasiveness. He bodily pulled the man from the latest tavern, shoving him against the outside wall of the building and holding him in place so that the older man would be forced to listen to his words. “Athos, we cannot continue this way. We will find the boy, but it’s time for us to get some rest. There’s nothing more to be done tonight.”

 

Aramis watched his friend closely, waiting to see if his words would be absorbed or dismissed, and when he felt some of the tension bleed out of Athos,  he loosened his hold, shifting from one meant to restrain to one meant to comfort. “Athos, we _will_ find him,” he repeated softly, guiding the man away from the wall as they retraced their steps back to Athos’ rooms. It was an unspoken agreement that the three men would meet there when they’d finished that night, either to celebrate the discovery of the Gascon or to commiserate his continued absence. Athos was quiet as they walked, lost in his own fears and guilt that he may have failed a second time to protect a younger brother. Rational thought told him that d’Artagnan was nothing like Thomas, but the desire to protect the young Musketeer drove him just as fiercely, making him single-minded in his need to find the boy alive and well. Aramis seemed to sense his melancholy thoughts as he knocked his shoulder gently against Athos’, “This is different, you know, and d’Artagnan’s certainly far from defenseless. You must have faith that he will stay alive until we’re able to find him and bring him home.”

 

Athos gave a noncommittal grunt, which could have been agreement or not, but Aramis wasn’t the least bit bothered by the response. He’d been friends with the older man long enough to recognize the behaviours that were fueled by the man’s worry, and knew well that Athos would act in a similar fashion if it was him or Porthos in the Gascon’s place. That was part of what drew men to Athos in the first place – the unwavering loyalty and steadfast devotion to protecting his brothers, no matter the cost to himself. it was this latter part that Aramis and Porthos took issue with, making it their personal mission to ensure that the price exacted was never higher than any of them could live with.

 

Looking up, Aramis spotted the light coming from Athos’ rooms, indicating that Porthos was already upstairs waiting for them, and he guided Athos to the door with a hand at the man’s back. They trudged up the stairs, weighed down by the worry they carried for the young Gascon. Athos led the way into his room, unbuckling his belt and dropping his weapons on the table before falling heavily into a chair. Aramis followed, sharing a look with Porthos, and the large man moved to gather wine and glasses from a cupboard, setting the latter down on the table before he poured. Athos drained his glass immediately, replacing it on the table to be refilled. Porthos sighed but poured obligingly before taking a seat across from Aramis who was sipping at his own drink.

 

They sat quietly for several minutes before Athos looked questioningly at Porthos, already guessing at his news, “Nothing yet but I’ve got people looking for information. If anyone saw or heard anything, I’ll find out.” Athos tilted his head in acknowledgement, his previous experience with Porthos’ contacts confirming the truth of his friend’s words.

 

Aramis gave him a grateful smile, as familiar with the effectiveness of Porthos’ network of contacts as Athos. “Sadly, we accomplished little more than wearing down the leather on the soles of our boots.” Lifting his half-full glass in a toast, he said, “I propose that we try to get some rest and set out again at first light. I’m certain there are still some alleyways that we’ve yet to visit.” He drank as he finished, his last words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he voiced the fears that troubled them all. Paris was a large city, crisscrossed by countless streets and alleys and densely populated; it was possible that they could search for days and still find no trace of the missing man.

 

Athos gave a weary nod, motioning with a hand toward the bed, “Lay down and get some sleep. I think I’ll stay up for a while.”

 

The two men watched as Athos took another long swallow of his wine and Porthos cleared his throat before he spoke, “Don’t feel tired enough to sleep yet.”

 

Athos raised an eyebrow as Aramis echoed Porthos’ words, “Nor I. I guess we’ll just keep you company for now.”

 

Placing the glass on the table in front of him, Athos looked at his two friends in exasperation. “Am I to understand that while I’m awake, neither of you will be tired enough to rest?” Athos asked, fondness for the two men coloring his words.

 

Porthos grinned ruefully as he admitted, “I think that’s about right. Aramis?”

 

“Yes, that seems to sum things up nicely,” Aramis agreed.

 

With a longsuffering sigh, Athos pushed himself to his feet, eyes darting sadly back to his wine glass. “Very well then. I believe I’ll retire now. Won’t you gentlemen join me?” he invited with mock politeness.”

 

“I could sleep,” Porthos stated with a wide grin.

 

“As could I,” Aramis declared, standing. Wordlessly, he followed Athos over to the bed, recognizing the older man’s need for comfort while their youngest was missing, the circumstances highly likely to bring up memories of Thomas’ death and cause nightmares. Unrepentantly, he undressed down to his smalls, waiting until Athos had climbed into bed and then slipped in beside him, smiling cheekily as Athos rolled his eyes and then settled down to sleep. Porthos watched them fondly, knowing that Athos would never admit that his brothers’ presence helped keep the nightmares at bay. When he was confident that his friends were comfortable and drifting off to sleep, he lifted his feet onto the chair across from him, tipping his own to lean against the wall behind him, and closed his eyes.

* * *

When awareness returned, he found himself wishing it hadn’t, his mouth dry and body sore from the various aches he’d managed to accumulate. A small amount of effort had him lying on his back, and as he pried open sticky lids, he was surprised to be able to make out the features of his drab prison easily with the light coming through the cracks in the walls. It took him several moments to understand why he found that fact surprising, and then realized that this meant he’d either been asleep for a very short time or a very long time, night having already passed and given way to a new day. The thought panicked him and he found himself pushing upright, moving gingerly to the nearest wall so he’d have something to support his back.

 

d’Artagnan frowned as he spotted the crust of bread that had been left for him, noticing that the bowl he’d drunk from was nowhere in sight. It was then that comprehension struck. Even at his worst, he would not have been so deeply asleep as to have missed his captor’s return when the bowl had been reclaimed. His swift descent into oblivion had clearly been aided in some fashion and the Gascon could only conclude that he’d been drugged. Sighing in frustration, he let his head fall back against the wall, cursing his stupidity at having allowed himself to be deceived again, costing him another opportunity to try to escape. Of course, that begged the question why his captors had decided to drug him in the first place. As his mind played with this new question, he was startled by a voice from outside, telling him to once more move away from the door. d’Artagnan stayed where he was, since his position was far enough away to be of little concern to his warden, and waited to see if the man would enter.

 

As before, the door was cracked enough to locate the prisoner, and then opened fully to allow entrance. It was the same man as before and he stalked forward a couple steps to deposit the refilled bowl of water. Backing away again, he stopped at the doorway and returned the Gascon’s stare. “Figured it out, did ya?” he asked with a grin.

 

d’Artagnan grunted, “Why did you drug me?”

 

The man shrugged uncaringly, “Wasn’t my idea but the boss thought it would be easier to keep you under control.”

 

The Gascon waved a hand at the leg irons that encircled his ankles, “Because these weren’t enough?” The man didn’t reply but didn’t seem ready to leave yet, so he pushed on, “How long have I been here?”

 

“Too long to go without food,” his gaze shifted meaningfully to the full bowl, “or water.”

 

“You honestly think I’m going to let you drug me again?” d’Artagnan replied hotly.

 

“Makes no difference to me,” the man stated indifferently and turned on his heel as he exited, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.

 

The young man allowed another sigh to escape him as he battled the futility of his situation. The man was right about his need for food and water, and his stomach already felt as if it were turning itself inside out with hunger. He craved a drink of water as well, the smell of the liquid in the bowl calling to him tantalizingly, but he resigned himself to leave it alone until a time when he absolutely had no other choice. He would need to refocus his energy on trying to escape and satisfyingly he filed away the fact that his captor had trusted that his prisoner was away from the door when he’d opened it this time. Next time, d’Artagnan would be ready and waiting for him, and hopefully catch the man unaware as he entered.

 

Having decided on his plan of action, there was little else to be done other than sit and wait, and he moved into position next to the door before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He had no intention of sleeping, but the sight of the bread and water did little to fuel his resolve to avoid both so it was easier if he didn’t see them. Instead, he catalogued his injuries, noting that his head was feeling better, the dizziness from before having passed and his headache dialing back to a dull throb. His ribs were still tender but he knew from past experience that it would take several more days before the bruises lightened and the soreness disappeared. Overall, his injuries were more of an inconvenience than anything else, and would not hamper his ability to fight or run away.

 

d’Artagnan opened his eyes occasionally and stood to stretch his stiff muscles, watching the passage of time as the shadows in his prison moved with the sun, returning each time to his spot by the door. When a sound finally reached his ears, he estimated that several hours had passed. Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he pressed back against the wall, readying for the moment when the man opened the door to check the location of his captive. As he’d expected, the man yelled for him to move away from the door and d’Artagnan stood with bated breath, praying that the man would not break routine. Seconds later he heard the first shifting of the door and prepared himself to attack. As soon as the door was moving, he pushed his hands against it, pulling the door into the room and dragging the off-balance man with it as he held onto the doorknob. He wasted no time in pressing his advantage, taking a half-step forward to deliver a punishing blow to the man’s face, which had his nose crumpling. The dazed man began to fall to his knees and, as he did so, d’Artagnan moved in behind him, capturing the man’s throat in the crook of his elbow, effectively cutting off his air supply until the man fell unconscious.

 

The Gascon was elated as he allowed the man to fall the rest of the way to the ground, hands moving through the man’s clothing immediately as he searched for the keys to his leg irons. The man’s pockets revealed nothing useful and d’Artagnan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Having no other choice, he moved to the doorway, resigning himself to an escape while his legs were still restricted. As he began backing out of the doorway, he pulled the door towards him, the bottom corner catching on the man’s legs. Leaning over, he began pushing at the man’s limbs so he could lock him into his former prison, missing the soft movement of fabric behind him. He had only a momentary realization of the pain that echoed through his skull as he was struck, falling in a heap across his former warden’s legs. “Didn’t really think it would be that easy, did ya?” a voice above him asked, grinning cruelly at the Musketeer’s unconscious form. 

* * *

It was their fourth day of searching for the missing man and, as each hour passed, the men turned progressively more inwards. Athos was barely speaking and hadn’t eaten or slept properly in the days since the Gascon had disappeared, despite his friends’ efforts. Porthos’ good nature had turned ugly, his strength being used callously against anyone thought to have any information about d’Artagnan’s whereabouts and his knuckles were bruised and sore as a result. Aramis’ silver tongue had turned poisonous and he lashed out at anyone who had the gall to suggest that the young man might be dead, or who criticized his or his friends’ actions as they tirelessly searched for even the barest clue of what might have happened. And yet, as they searched, they knew that they faced an unbeatable enemy – time. As each minute inexorably passed, it drew them closer to the possibility that they boy had been killed and brought them nearer to the point where Treville would have no choice but to declare the boy dead, forcing them to return to their duties.

 

_“Captain, we just need more time. You know as well as we that d’Artagnan has the most incredible luck. Not always of the good kind, I’ll admit, but he has the wits and strength to overcome whatever has happened to him – we can’t just give up on him,” Aramis pleaded, knowing his words had the greatest likelihood of swaying Treville, Porthos too distressed to remain polite and Athos too overcome by fear and sorrow to adequately to voice his thoughts._

_Treville pinched the bridge of his nose, looking down at his lap for a moment and steeling himself for what he needed to say. A moment later he looked up as he spoke, “I’m truly sorry. I have no desire to give up on the boy, any more than you do, but news has reached the King and rumours have begun to circulate suggesting that d’Artagnan’s absence is of his own doing.” He held up a hand as Porthos drew breath to speak, clearly preparing to defend the missing Gascon. “I don’t believe it either, but at the same time I must be sensitive to the King’s beliefs. It places us into a precarious position, deploying the King’s resources to find a young man who was recently placed on restricted duties and then mysteriously disappeared. You must understand how it might seem to those who don’t know d’Artagnan as well as we do.”_

_“But, Captain,” Porthos protested, stopping as Athos placed a hand on his forearm._

_“How much time do we have left?” Athos asked, voice low and thick with emotion._

_Treville’s own concerns for their missing fourth were reflected in his eyes as he replied to his lieutenant. “You have today. The others have already been recalled and assigned other duties and, if you are needed, tomorrow you’ll be reassigned as well. I’m sorry, we’re simply out of time.”_

The three men had left Treville’s office disheartened and solemn, not even waiting for the man to dismiss them as they trailed out after Athos who was determined not to waste a moment of the time that remained. The knowledge that they might soon be forced to abandon their attempts made them desperate in their efforts to find any information that might give them even the slightest chance of finding their friend, and they had been especially aggressive in dealing with those who might have any clues to offer. Despite their resolve, late afternoon was rapidly slipping into evening and the three weary men had nothing to show for their efforts.

 

“How can a man simply disappear into thin air?” Aramis questioned in frustration, removing his hat with one hand while his other tugged through his matted curls.

 

Porthos glanced at his friend, knowing well how simple it was to lose someone in Paris, having experienced it many times during his years in the Court; as he looked at the sorrow on his friends’ faces, he couldn’t bear to point this out, seeing that they were already suffering so keenly. Instead, he said, “Look, maybe there’s something we missed. Someone we should talk to, who we’ve forgotten?” Even as he said the words, he recognized the futility of his suggestions – they were out of ideas and grasping at straws.

 

Athos turned his head to the sky, noting distractedly how the blue was already darkening with nightfall, signalling the end of another day of fruitless searching. He was loathe to end their pursuit of the young man, but was completely out of ideas and recognized the empty feeling that was beginning to take hold in the pit of his stomach – grief. He was no stranger to its cloying hold, overpowering any remnants of hope that could help a man find his way out of the darkness and back into the light. He’d felt its grasp before, first with Thomas’ murder and then later upon discovering that his brother had been killed by the hands of his beloved wife. In the days that followed, he’d fallen into an abyss of loneliness and despair, praying for death to take him so he might escape its hold. But fate had been cruel and had not provided the escape he’d sought, and somehow he’d lived and found his way to his brothers at the garrison. He’d felt its pull again when word reached them about the massacre at Savoy – twenty men dead and no survivors. He had little recollection of the journey he and Porthos had undertaken, sent with the others to bring the bodies of their fallen comrades home. By the time they’d arrived, grief had nearly engulfed him, wrapping itself so firmly around his heart that he thought he might soon find himself gasping for breath. But again, fate had interceded, and upon their arrival they’d found their friend alive, although terribly ill. In that moment, Athos had decided that grief would have no further opportunities to court him, protecting his brothers fiercely so they would come to no harm, and building a barricade around his heart so that no else could breach it.

 

Then d’Artagnan arrived. He was a brash and passionate young man, full of life and overflowing with grief at the loss of his father; Athos had recognized that grief and had not had the heart to kill him as a result. He’d thought that would be the end of it, but the Gascon was not so easily dismissed, stating that he had the heart of a Musketeer and would be steadfast in his training and pursuit of the King’s commission and again Athos had recognized the emotion – hope. In the face of such overwhelming hope, he’d crumbled, his defenses being no match for the young man’s loyalty and determination and Athos found himself having to expand his circle of protected brothers from two to three. Now, in this dirty Parisian street, hope had been ripped cruelly from his grasp and in its place only sat the cold misery of grief. Grief at a young life lost too soon; grief at the senselessness of his disappearance; grief at the knowledge that they might never know what happened to the young man and that they might never have the comfort of laying him to rest. It was in this moment of grief that Athos’ eyes welled and the sky above him blurred, tears falling shamelessly down his cheeks as he silently raged against the injustice that would have the three of them wallowing in grief.

 

Aramis and Porthos moved in unison, capturing their older brother between them as they gave in to the fear and worry that had been their resolute companions since d’Artagnan’s disappearance. There were no words of comfort that would be sufficient to ease their shared sorrow, so they remained silent, holding on to each other and drawing strength from their brotherhood, all too aware of their missing member. It felt like time stood still around them, the universe swallowing them and whisking them away to a place where things fell silent and the only things that mattered were the three of them and their deep need to cling to each other lest they be overcome. In truth, it was only a minute, the Parisian streets too busy to allow the group to invade its presence for long, and when sound returned, it was both far too loud and too soft, making the men cringe as they wiped away the remnants of their tears. They waited for Athos to speak, knowing without a doubt that the choice to retreat to the garrison would have to be his. Long moments passed as they watched the older man compose himself, digging down deeply to the strength of his core before drawing a breath to announce, “It’s time for us to go home.” Aramis and Porthos both longed to keep looking and knew that Athos would willingly join them if they asked, but the price exacted would be too high, only extending the agony that they were now experiencing. The three turned in the direction of the garrison, naturally falling into step, positioned so closely that their shoulders bumped and rubbed every few steps, offering some solace as they tried to accept the loss of their fourth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville slipped out softly, doubtful that anything could have pulled the men’s attention away at this point, and certain that the only one likely to be sleeping that night was the young man occupying the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the great comments and kudos on the last chapter and sorry for not including a tissue warning. Some hope ahead here for our boys. Enjoy!

It was the early hours of the morning, far past midnight, but still hours away from dawn when Thierry noticed movement down the street from the garrison gates, barely illuminated by the lanterns that burned brightly on either side of the entrance. He called to his partner, Fouquet, and pointed to the object of his attention where they caught a glimpse of a bundle leaning against the wall of the garrison, another poor and lonely sole who’d succumbed to the hardships that were endured by so many of Paris’ displaced citizens. As they watched, the bundle struggled to move, rolling over to reveal a man trying to push himself to his knees. The flickering torchlight revealed a shock of dark hair as the man’s head hung heavily, clearly trying to find enough strength in order to stand. Drawing closer, they could see how dirty and torn the man’s shirt was, and could hear a moan of pain as he tried desperately to gain his feet, one hand clawing for purchase on the wall beside him. Thierry’s eyes narrowed at the sight; there was something achingly familiar about the form in front of them and, despite his misgivings, he moved closer. The man had not noticed his approach and Thierry squinted in the weak light to make out his features, but the poor man’s head still hung low and he seemed destined to fall back to the ground. Sitting on his haunches, Thierry reached a hand forward, placing it gently on the man’s thin shoulder. The man was startled and fell sideways, losing the precarious balance that he’d fought so hard to achieve.

 

As the man lay in front of him panting, blinking to clear his vision, Thierry rocked back on his heels and looked to Fouquet, “Get the Captain!” Looking back at the man on the ground, he added, “Hurry.” Fouquet obeyed immediately, fully understanding the urgency that had compelled Thierry’s words and his long legs ate up the ground to the courtyard, propelling him swiftly up the stairs to Treville’s office. He was surprised to see a light from within and then belatedly realized that is was just likely there to illuminate the front room, the Captain’s bed located behind another door at the back of his quarters. He paused for only a moment, hesitating at waking his commanding officer, but then realized that the man would want to be advised. Rapping his knuckles solidly against the wood he waited, praying that the man would wake easily. He heard movement from within almost immediately and the door was opened, revealing Treville, still dressed in a shirt and breeches, clearly still awake. This sight brought a momentary frown to Fouquet’s face until he took in the lines of weariness that creased the old soldier’s face; the Captain had always cared deeply for his men and it was clear that the news of d’Artagnan’s continued absence had affected him, especially since the search had been officially ended the previous night.

 

“What is it, Fouquet?” Treville asked, his voice heavy with fatigue.

 

“Captain, there’s a man outside the garrison walls,” the Musketeer replied. “Thierry stayed with him. Sir, it’s d’Artagnan.”

 

The Captain’s eyebrow raised questioningly, afraid to believe that the young Gascon might have been found. “Are you certain?” Fouquet gave a sharp nod. “Show me,” Treville ordered, already moving through his door and pulling it closed behind him, motioning for the Musketeer to lead the way. Their trip back through the gates was completed just as quickly as Fouquet’s earlier dash to the Captain’s office, and they were soon standing beside Thierry who still knelt next to the Gascon. He looked up at Treville’s arrival, moving back a little to allow the Captain to stand closer. “He seems pretty confused, sir. He tried to stand earlier and didn’t manage it, and when I tried speaking to him, he didn’t seem to recognize me. I was afraid of scaring him.”

 

Treville nodded, sitting on his haunches next to the young man whose eyes fluttered, clearly not fully aware of his surroundings but anxious enough to force himself to remain at least partially aware. “d’Artagnan,” the Captain spoke soothingly, “do you know who I am?”

 

The Gascon’s head rolled toward the voice, but there was no recognition in his eyes, and the older man watched as the boy’s hand scrabbled against the dirt underneath it. A low moan escaped as d’Artagnan’s eyes closed for several seconds before springing open again, clearly startled by something as his breathing quickened. Treville turned to face Fouquet, issuing a quiet order, “See if you can find Athos, Aramis and Porthos. They returned to the garrison last night and there’s a good chance they’re together.” The man gave a quick nod and moved away as Treville turned his attention back to their youngest. “d’Artagnan, it’s Captain Treville.” The young man’s head again turned toward the voice, this time somewhat calmer, although it was unclear exactly how much he’d understood. “d’Artagnan, can you tell me where you’re hurt?” He watched as the Gascon’s lips moved and his breaths quickened once more, but received only another groan before the man’s eyes began to droop.

 

Rubbing a hand across his face, Treville made his decision. “We need to get him inside, regardless of his condition.” Thierry nodded and moved behind d’Artagnan, waiting for the Captain to gently place his hands on the young man’s arms. When the Gascon allowed the touch, Treville nodded to the other Musketeer and they raised the boy to a seated position, pausing for several seconds at the sound of pain the motion caused. With a man on each side, they managed to lift the young man to his feet where he swayed dangerously until they ducked underneath his arms, supporting him as they pulled him along the wall of the garrison and into the safety of the courtyard. Again, Treville considered their options and decided to settle the boy in his own room, it being closer than the infirmary and likely to offer the young man greater comfort, especially while he was still confused by his surroundings. The Captain began moving them forward, motioning his intention to head toward the stairs, but their movement was halted abruptly as d’Artagnan almost folded in half, retching violently onto the ground at his feet. The bout didn’t last long and Treville noted unhappily that the young man had brought up nothing more than a little watery bile, suggesting that he hadn’t eaten in quite some time.

 

Being sick had apparently drained what was left of d’Artagnan’s energy, and he was nearly boneless between them as they practically carried him up the stairs and down the walkway to his room. Thierry took most of the man’s weight as Treville reached forward to open the door to the Gascon’s room, allowing it to swing inwards with a firm push. They were surprised to find the space alight with several candles, revealing three men sprawled around in varying positions, all deeply asleep. Treville grunted to himself, realizing that he should have guessed that the three would find solace in being in the young man’s room, although from the number of empty bottles strewn about, it was clear that they’d sought additional comfort in wine. “Come on,” he said curtly to Thierry, d’Artagnan’s slim build pressing down heavily the longer that they carried him. He kicked a booted foot at Athos’ leg as they passed the chair where the older man was slumped and he couldn’t help a feeling of satisfaction as he watched Athos’ head jolt upwards as he tried to orient himself beyond the fog of wine that clouded his mind. Treville didn’t pause, however, and continued towards d’Artagnan’s bed, the two men setting the boy down gently and allowing him to lay down on his side when it became clear that sitting upright was beyond his current ability. 

 

By the time he’d straightened and turned back to the room, Athos was standing, staring at the bed. His breathing stuttered at the sight of the young man, fearful of allowing hope to take purchase only to have it once more cruelly extinguished, but he was already unconsciously moving toward the bed. Sitting down on its edge, he reached a trembling hand forward, needing to confirm that the man before him was real and not a harsh trick conjured by his imagination. As he touched the young man’s cold and shivering arm, Athos choked on a sob as he gasped, “d’Artagnan.”

 

Behind him, Aramis and Porthos had roused and were now watching as their leader confirmed the presence of the young man they’d believed lost to them. Aramis had eyes only for the Gascon, his curiosity at how the boy had been returned to them overpowered by his appearance, noting from what little he could see that the Gascon’s condition was poor.

 

Porthos managed to pull his eyes away from the bed to look at the Captain who’d moved back toward the table and chairs, allowing the three men unfettered access to the young man. “How?” he breathed out, the disbelief clear in his soft tone.

 

Treville gave a quick head shake, “No idea. Thierry spotted him outside.”

 

Porthos’ eyes darted to the other Musketeer and he gave the man a quick nod of thanks, swallowing thickly at the emotion that seemed to be choking him as he was drawn to the bed, just as his other two friends had been. Aramis had allowed Athos to keep his place at the boy’s side, understanding the need to be reassured that d’Artagnan would not disappear once more. He took a spot in a chair on the young man’s other side, hands hovering hesitantly over top of him as he tried to decide where to begin. “Porthos,” he said, intending to ask the man to bring water and cloths but the Captain interrupted him.

 

“Thierry, wake Sebastian and Rémy and have them take your place at the gates. Then fetch water and bandages and let Fouquet know we’ve found Athos and the others,” Treville ordered. He received matching looks of appreciation from Aramis and Porthos at the fact that he’d anticipated the medic’s request and delegated the task to another so that Porthos could remain by his friends’ sides. “How is he?” he asked, bringing Aramis’ attention back to the Gascon.

 

Aramis spared a moment to glance at Athos, “Help me roll him onto his back.” The medic pulled while Athos pushed, gently turning the boy from his side. d’Artagnan startled, a jolt of movement shooting from him as his hands jumped, Athos immediately leaning forward to soothe him with quiet words and a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “What can you tell us about his injuries, Captain?” Aramis asked as his eyes roamed over the boy’s face and torso.

 

“He was unable to stand on his own and seemed disoriented. On the way here, he vomited but brought up nothing but bile,” Treville offered succinctly, just as anxious about the young man’s condition as the other three.

 

Aramis mumbled to himself about needing to remove the boy’s shirt while his fingers moved to d’Artagnan’s head where he gently probed at boy’s skull. He encountered something that made him frown and leaned closer as he parted the Gascon’s dark hair to peer at the skin underneath. Exhaling loudly, he moved a hand to the boy’s eyelids which were closed once more, and gave a meaningful look to Athos, signalling his intention to check for concussion. With a quick lift of both lids, which drew moans of distress from d’Artagnan, Aramis gave a short nod confirming his suspicions.

 

He leaned back in his chair, about to request a knife in order to cut the dirty shirt from the Gascon’s chest and a blade appeared before his face, held in Porthos’ firm grip as he waited for the medic to take it from his hand. “Thank you,” Aramis murmured to his friend. He made quick work of the shirt, slitting it from hem to collar and allowing the two sides to fall open, exposing the boy’s chest.

 

"Bloody hell," Porthos swore as he scrubbed a hand through his curls, turning away momentarily at the vivid bruising on the boy’s torso. Aramis forced himself to ignore his friend’s anguish, focusing instead on the Gascon who lay pliantly in front of him. His hands ghosted expertly over the bruised areas, offering as much certainty as was possible that nothing internally had been damaged, nor were there any broken bones.

 

His examination was interrupted as Thierry returned, another man following in his wake to deliver buckets of both hot and cool water and a supply of clean linen. Thierry threw the Captain an expectant look and the man nodded, dismissing him so the three men could tend to their injured friend without an audience. Porthos was quick to fill a basin with water while Treville handed Aramis several clean cloths and then stood back and watched as the medic and Athos worked to remove the shirt from the Gascon’s body and then wash away the dirt and the grime that covered him. As they worked, Porthos settled on the bed beside the young man’s legs, pulling both boots from his feet before resting a hand on one ankle, although for whose comfort was difficult to tell.

 

When they’d finished, d’Artagnan was no more aware than when he’d been discovered and Athos found the stillness disturbing, looking to Aramis for an explanation. “I found evidence of at least two head wounds, one older and one that hasn’t yet begun to heal. His chest and ribs are bruised and will be sore, but I don’t believe there’s anything there to cause concern.”

 

“Then why isn’t he awake?” Athos asked, the tone pleading as he looked for answers to the Gascon’s state.

 

Aramis could only offer a small shrug in reply, “The head wounds, exhaustion, other mistreatment of which we’re unaware – take your pick. Until he wakes, there’s little more that we can do other than speculate.”

 

“But ‘e will wake?” Porthos asked, needing the confirmation as much as his brothers.

 

“I’m as certain as one can be with head wounds,” Aramis offered. “There’s little for us to do now other than let him sleep and keep him comfortable.” Putting his words into action, he gently laid a blanket over the young man’s bare chest, tucking it in around him.

 

Athos’ attention had already been drawn back to d’Artagnan’s face, eyes pinched in pain even in sleep. He reached a hand forward to lay on the young man’s brow, falling absently into a pattern of rubbing circles on the boy’s temple. Treville observed the three men who only had eyes for their youngest, and he could feel the shift in the air, no longer suffocated by grief but still tense at the Gascon’s condition. Clearing his throat, he spoke quietly, “Let me know when he wakes and make sure you get some sleep as well. I’ll be by later in the day but consider yourselves off duty for now.”

 

Athos spared a quick glance in the Captain’s direction, giving a short nod of thanks before refocusing on the young man. Treville slipped out softly, doubtful that anything could have pulled the men’s attention away at this point, and certain that the only one likely to be sleeping that night was the young man occupying the bed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was still nothing to indicate the presence of a threat and no real information upon which to base a plan of action and he found himself with the unhappy realization that his gut was still churning as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments about d'Artagnan's return in the last chapter. A few answers about what happened in this next one. Enjoy!

The men had valiantly done their best to remain awake, but the combination of fatigue, stress and too much wine pulled Aramis and Porthos into a light slumber, Aramis eventually leaning forward to rest his head and arms on the bed while Porthos had slumped over onto the foot of the bed, curled around d’Artagnan’s feet. Athos didn’t mind and was content to watch over his friends as they slept, sending a hopeful prayer that the Gascon’s sleep was a healing one that would bring the boy back to them once he woke. He had never been an overly devout man, even less so following the death of his brother and his wife’s treachery, but he had to admit that the young man’s return was nothing short of a miracle. None of them had wanted to give up on the boy, but there had been no more clues to his whereabouts and they’d returned to the garrison empty-handed, grudgingly reporting their failure to Treville. They knew what his decision would be even before the man spoke the words, and the Captain had reluctantly declared d’Artagnan missing and presumed dead, the search for him officially over. It did not mean that his friends could no longer look for him, but their activities would be relegated behind their other duties, the focus once more on their service to the King.

 

When they’d departed Treville’s office, they’d somehow found their way to d’Artagnan’s empty room, and none of them had been willing to be apart from the others. When Athos had sat down on the Gascon’s bed, one hand idly playing with a loose thread on the blanket, Aramis and Porthos had turned and left, returning shortly with food and several bottles of wine. Their meal had been a silent affair and for once, their drinking was just as sombre, none of them in the mood for conversation and lost in their sorrow for the young man who’d been taken from them too soon. Athos had little recollection of when he’d passed out, but knew that he’d managed to outlast both of his friends, Aramis succumbing first, followed quite some time later by Porthos. He remembered vaguely thinking that their positions were uncomfortable and that he should rearrange their loose limbs, but by then he’d lacked both the motivation and coordination necessary to accomplish the task. So he continued to drink, relishing the way the world around him grew softer, dulling the harsh edges of a reality that he sought so desperately to escape. But no matter how much wine he’d consumed the hollowness in his chest had remained, making him grateful when his body finally fell unconscious, offering him a short reprieve from facing life without d’Artagnan by his side.  

 

He’d been shocked when Treville appeared with the Gascon, certain that he was trapped in a horrible hallucination brought on by the wine. Even now, one hand remained on the boy’s forearm, holding on to him lest he disappear again. Athos found himself drawing a shaky breath as the fears from before returned, muted in their intensity, but still sharp enough to make him want to wrap the boy in his arms and ensure that he never came to harm again. He looked away from the young man for a moment to compose himself, surprised to find Porthos’ eyes on him as the man slowly pushed himself upright.

 

Porthos’ face wore a knowing grin as he spoke softly, “Has a way of gettin’ under your skin, doesn’t he?”

Athos couldn’t help but offer a small smile in return as he nodded. “Has he been awake at all?”

 

“No,” Athos replied, eyes darting to lightening sky outside the window. “I was thinking we should try to wake him soon.”

 

Porthos nodded in agreement, rising to take care of his morning needs. “Let Aramis sleep a bit longer and I’ll go find something for breakfast. If d’Artagnan’s still asleep then, we’ll try to wake him.”

 

Athos remained at the young man’s side as he idly listened to Porthos moving around the room, followed by his retreating footfalls outside as he departed for the kitchen. He was grateful for the quiet time he’d had at the Gascon’s side and hoped that the peace he’d found there wouldn’t be dashed when they tried to wake the young man. Several minutes later Porthos returned with a covered tray, which he placed on the table before moving to Aramis’ side to wake him. With a warm hand on the nape of the medic’s neck, he exerted gentle pressure to keep the man from jumping upright, knowing his friend would be stiff and sore from his awkward position. “Aramis, it’s morning. Time to see if we can wake d’Artagnan.” Porthos could feel the body beneath his hand tense momentarily and then relax once more as Aramis realized where he was and who had spoken. Opening his eyes, he gave a small nod, the larger man repositioning his hand to his friend’s shoulder to slowly guide him upright. Aramis gave him a smile of gratitude which shifted to a wince moments later as his back and neck muscles protested and his head joined in to remind him of the alcohol he’d consumed. As he raised a hand to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, Porthos’ hand returned to the nape of his neck accompanied by a soft chuckle, “You really should know better by now, Aramis.”

 

The medic’s hand dropped to his lap as he glared up at his friend, the effect ruined by the fact that he had to squint as his headache spiked, “Are you referring to how much I drank or my sleeping position?”

 

Porthos simply grinned back and shrugged, his hand squeezing gently at the tense muscles beneath his hand. “I brought breakfast and we want to try waking the lad. Do you want to eat first?”

 

Aramis’ face took on a decidedly green cast as he struggled to his feet, extending a hand for Porthos to help pull him upwards. “Let me take care of my needs and then we’ll wake the boy.”

 

Athos had watched the exchange between the two with fondness, the carefree ribbing a welcome return to the normalcy that had eluded them while the Gascon had been missing. Aramis finished quickly, splashing some of the cool water from the basin over his face and pulling his hands through his hair in an attempt to tame the wild curls. When he returned to his seat, the other two were waiting impatiently, all of them anxious to see the young man awake so they could confirm that he was alright and finally get some answers about his disappearance. Aramis met Athos’ gaze and gave him a nod of encouragement, the older man leaning forward with a hand on the young man’s shoulder as he spoke, “d’Artagnan, it’s morning. Time for you to wake up.” The men waited with bated breath for any sign of movement. When nothing happened, Athos shifted his hand to cup the young man’s cheek and tried again, “d’Artagnan, you’ve been asleep long enough. Please, open your eyes.”

 

Once more, the men watched and Aramis pointed to the twitch of the young man’s fingers, followed by his furrowed brow. He reached for a cloth and rewet it in the basin that still sat next to the bed, wiping it slowing across the young man’s forehead to bring him closer to awareness. d’Artagnan tried to move away but Athos’ hand on his face stopped him, and he let out a low moan of discomfort. “Come on, lad, you can do it,” Porthos encouraged. He was rewarded as d’Artagnan’s eyelids lifted, treating them to a momentary view of his dark eyes before they began to close again.

 

“Uh, uh,” Aramis cajoled, “you need to stay awake for a bit.”

 

d’Artagnan complied as he propped his eyes open again, this time scanning his surroundings to identify the source of the voice he’d heard. Athos moved closer, positioning himself over the boy’s head, waiting for recognition to dawn. “’thos?” he slurred.

 

Athos couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped him as he smiled down at the young man and nodded, “Yes, welcome back, d’Artagnan.”

 

The Gascon’s brow furrowed as he asked, “Was I away?”

 

Porthos huffed at the boy’s comment and Aramis smiled as Athos answered, “You were, but the important thing is that you’re back now.”

 

Aramis pulled d’Artagnan’s attention away from Athos, his healer’s instincts coming to the fore, “d’Artagnan, how are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon rolled his head to the side, blinking to focus on the medic, a small smile gracing his face. “’Mis,” he breathed out.

 

Aramis couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s somewhat goofy expression, clearly still not fully aware but obviously pleased to be surrounded by his friends. “d’Artagnan,” he tried again, “can you tell me what hurts?”

 

The young man looked confused for another moment before he pulled in a deep breath, “Did I hit my head?” His right hand was beginning to reach for his head, and Athos captured it in his own, keeping hold of it as Aramis explained.

 

“Yes, it looks like someone hit you. Does it hurt much?”

 

“Mmm,” d’Artagnan hummed, tongue darting out to lick dry lips as his eyes drifted closed. Porthos saw the movement and was up before anyone could ask, pouring a cup of water for the young man.

 

Aramis tapped at the Gascon’s cheek, prompting him to open his eyes once more. Taking the cup from Porthos’ hands, he eased his other hand beneath the boy’s head and lifted it slightly off the pillow, bringing the water forward so d’Artagnan could drink. He swallowed gratefully until Aramis pulled the cup away, replacing his head on the pillow. “Better?”

 

d’Artagnan gave an abbreviated nod, stopping when the motion intensified the ache in his head. “Best not to do that for now. You have a concussion,” Aramis explained. “Do you hurt anywhere else?”

 

“Just my chest, but it’s not bad,” the Gascon replied, eyes moving lazily to Porthos, giving his friend a small grin, and then landing on Athos.

 

“d’Artagnan, what do you remember of what happened to you?” Athos asked, seeing that he had the young man’s attention.

 

d’Artagnan was quiet and then bit his lip, a familiar sign to his friends that the boy was collecting his thoughts. “Someone came to the garrison,” he paused as he struggled to remember. “It was supposed to be a message from Constance but wasn’t, it was a trap,” he broke off again, blinking slowly. “They drugged the water.”

 

Aramis frowned at the boy’s comment, “What do you mean, they drugged the water?”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze moved to the medic’s as he replied, “Gave me water but it was drugged. Didn’t drink anymore after that.”

 

The three men exchanged confused looks at the Gascon’s disjointed comments, “So when did you get hit in the head?” Porthos asked.

 

“In the alley,” the young man answered, “and the shack.” He gave a little shudder as he recalled the stench of the building he’d been kept in. “Smelled really bad.”

 

Athos took a breath as he reminded himself that the boy was still disoriented from how he’d been treated and was not intentionally trying to confuse them. “d’Artagnan, are you saying that you suffered two strikes to the head?’ The young man gave a careful nod. “And, the shack where they held you,” another nod, “smelled?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” the boy breathed out, eyelids beginning to droop again.

 

“Can you tell us anything about the men who took you?” Athos prompted, hoping to get some usable information before the Gascon fell asleep again.

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed as he recalled the man’s words, “Paid to keep me alive.”

 

“Who?” Porthos questioned, “Who paid them to keep you alive?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head wearily, “Never said.”

 

Aramis gave Athos a meaningful look, indicating that they needed to stop soon. Athos gave a dip of his head in understanding as he asked, “d’Artagnan, I know you’re tired and we’ll let you rest soon. Just tell us, how did you escape?”

 

“Didn’t,” the Gascon answered softly, “didn’t think I’d make it back.”

 

Porthos squeezed d’Artagnan’s ankle, trying to keep him aware for a few moments longer, “You made it back and you’re safe, lad. But how did you get away?”

 

“Didn’t,” he answered again, eyes slipping closed once more.

 

Aramis intervened before either of his friends could push further, standing and giving both of them a warning look to let the boy rest. Athos and Porthos followed Aramis the few steps to the small table so they could speak without disturbing the young man. Athos threw the medic an inquiring look. “He seems fine. Confused, but that’s normal given his numerous head wounds in such a short amount of time. The most important thing is that he recognized us and was able to recall most of what happened to him. Now he just needs some proper rest and good food.”

 

“What do you think he meant when he said he didn’t escape?” Porthos questioned, puzzlement coloring his words. “How else would he get back here unless they let him go and delivered him to the garrison themselves?” He’d meant the comment to be sarcastic but the looks on both men’s faces indicated that they were considering the possibility that he was correct. “Nah, you don’t really think they brought him back after kidnappin’ him?”

 

Aramis gave a half shrug as Athos offered a curt nod, “If they did, then one can assume that they did so for a reason, and one of which were are not yet aware.” As his two friends processed the implication of his words, he said, “Treville will want to know what we’ve learned.” He turned to leave, sharing a last look with the two men.

 

Porthos nodded, “Don’t worry, we ain’t going nowhere. He’s safe with us.” They watched the older man leave, Porthos turning to the medic whose gaze had returned to the Gascon. “You really think someone kidnapped him just to get him out of the way for a few days?”

 

“It’s certainly possible, although I admit that the potential motive for such an act completely eludes me,” Aramis confessed.

 

“If that is what happened, the boy could still be at risk. We’ll need to keep a close eye on him, especially once he starts feelin’ better,” Porthos stated, recalling well the young man’s low tolerance for inactivity and boredom when he was recovering from injury.

 

Aramis gave a small smile at his friend’s words, Porthos clapping him gently on the back. “Come on, I brought food and you need to eat something to sop up what’s left of that wine in your belly.” He made the medic sit down at the table before taking the seat across from him, and the two men ate as they waited for Athos to return. 

* * *

The Captain was working his way through the seemingly never-ending paperwork that accompanied his position, the task taking considerably longer than normal due to the lack of sleep he’d gotten the previous night and the distraction of his thoughts which stubbornly turned back to the Gascon’s mysterious appearance every time his focus slipped. Putting down the piece of parchment in his hand, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment as he allowed his mind to roam freely, invariably conjuring images of d’Artagnan’s bedraggled form. While he knew that the young man needed some time to recuperate, he was getting impatient for some news about the events surrounding the boy’s disappearance. Was this part of something larger? If so, who was at risk? Instead of wading through administrative affairs, should he instead be preparing for some unknown enemy? The questions he had far outweighed the information available and he chafed, frustrated at having to wait for the Gascon to awake, his soldier’s instincts tugging at him insistently, telling him that there was more going on than met the eye.

 

His ruminations were interrupted by a knock at his door and he sighed before calling out permission to enter. When he saw who it was, he straightened in his chair, hoping that he might finally get some of the information he was seeking.

 

“Good morning, Captain,” Athos greeted politely. “d’Artagnan was awake briefly, and while his thoughts are still muddied, he was able to share some of what transpired.” Treville gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement and waited for his lieutenant to proceed. “It appears that he was lured from the garrison under the guise of receiving a message from Madame Bonacieux. When they had him alone in an alley, they rendered him unconscious and took him to a building of some sort.” Athos paused as he considered the Gascon’s words about the smell, and decided to omit them since they added little value to his report. “From what d’Artagnan shared, we surmise that he’s suffered at least two head wounds and was drugged at some point. The combination has left him confused.”

 

Athos stopped again, considering his next words and the Captain waited patiently, sensing that the man had more to say. Drawing a deep breath, he continued, “The most disturbing fact is that he seems convinced that he didn’t escape his captors. If that’s true, then I’m at a loss to explain why he was taken in the first place.”

 

As he processed Athos’ words, Treville knew intuitively this was the exactly the type of news he’d been waiting for, uneasy that something strange was going on, but with no idea what to expect until his lieutenant had spoken. “Do you believe d’Artagnan will be able to add anything more once his mind clears?”

 

Athos hesitated a moment before shaking his head, “I truly do not believe he knows anything else that will help.”

 

The Captain could see the regret in the Musketeer’s eyes, but had expected the reply he’d received. “Do not worry yourself, Athos. How is d’Artagnan doing otherwise?”

 

“Well,” Athos answered, “Aramis believes that, with some rest and food, he’ll be just fine.”

 

Treville nodded, “Good. Why don’t you return to him and let me know if you find out anything more later. I’ll keep you all off duty for now.”

 

Athos gave a grateful tilt of his head and exited the office, the Captain watching his back as he left. Treville let a soft sigh escape as he let himself slump into the chair once more, the news Athos’ had shared weighing on him. There was still nothing to indicate the presence of a threat and no real information upon which to base a plan of action and he found himself with the unhappy realization that his gut was still churning as he waited for the other shoe to drop.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would have preferred to return to the garrison alone, taking a few minutes to speak with the inseparables and prepare them for what was to come. As it was, he only hoped his men didn’t choose to shoot first and ask questions later, or it would be more than one of his Musketeers facing the hangman’s noose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments and speculation about d'Artagnan's absence. After a bit of a reprieve, things start to heat up for our boys again. Hope you enjoy!

In d’Artagnan’s room, Aramis and Porthos had eaten and the larger man had convinced his friend that it would be alright for him to leave for a while, wanting to return to his room for a clean shirt and a salve that would ease the bruising on the young man’s chest. Porthos sat quietly in his chair at the table, considering all that had transpired over the last days while the boy had been missing, and the implications of the scant amount of information he’d been able to share while awake. Like the others, he sensed that there was more to come, and the Gascon’s kidnapping was simply one piece of a larger puzzle, but he currently lacked enough of the picture to be able to hazard a guess as to what. When the boy had first disappeared, Porthos had gone to his contacts at the Court in search of information, and while his request had garnered no insights into the boy’s location, he was surprised now that no one had even made mention of having seen the abduction in the alleyway. There was a strong possibility that the person who’d tricked d’Artagnan into leaving the garrison was a resident of the Court, and the fact that this information hadn’t come out was concerning; too concerning for him to leave alone, he realized, and he vowed to spend some time later in the day investigating exactly what had happened to keep this information from him.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by Athos’ return, the older man pausing at the door when he saw Porthos’ pistol aimed in his direction, the larger man lowering it back to the table with a grin. Athos entered and closed the door behind him, pleased that the young man was being well guarded. He sat down across from Porthos, glancing quickly at the still sleeping form in bed, “Aramis?”

 

Porthos pushed the food toward him as he said, “Gone to change and to bring back something for the lad’s bruises. He seems alright now, but we both now that once he starts movin’ around, they’ll ache like the devil.” Athos gave a nod and began to eat. “What does the Captain think is goin’ on?” 

 

Swallowing, Athos leaned back, unhappy with the conclusions they’d both drawn, “It makes no sense to kidnap him, only to return him days later, essentially unharmed. There must be more to it, and I fear that we will be caught unaware if we’re unable to ferret out what.”

 

Porthos dipped his head in understanding, sharing the man’s feelings. “I was thinkin’ I would go back and talk with a few folks in the Court today. Now that we know what happened, I find it hard to believe that no one saw anything on the day he was taken.”

 

Athos looked at him sharply, “You believe someone from the Court was involved?” The look he received from Porthos indicated the larger man thought he was being naïve and Athos conceded with a nod. “You’re probably right. Someone from the Court would have been all too willing to dupe a Musketeer for a handful of coins.”

 

As much as Porthos was loathe to admit it, he knew Athos’ statement to be true, many of the Court’s residents willing to do almost anything to stop from going hungry and they certainly held no love for any of the King’s guards. Instead he said, “We’ll need to ask the lad more about the messenger who tricked him so I have a better idea of who to look for.”

 

Athos hummed as he took another bite, watching calmly as Porthos lifted his pistol once more, this time taking aim at Aramis who was returning with the salve he’d sought. The medic smiled at Porthos as he closed the door behind him and found his way to the Gascon’s side. “Has he been asleep this whole time?”

 

“Hasn’t even twitched,” Porthos replied.

 

Aramis folded the blanket back, revealing the young man’s chest, the bruising still looking dark and tender. Taking a dollop of salve, Aramis rubbed it in his hands to warm it and then began to rub gentle circles on d’Artagnan’s chest, allowing the ointment to soak into the skin beneath his hands. When he’d finished, he grabbed a clean cloth to wipe his hands, startling when he noticed he was being watched. A smile split his face as he greeted the young man, “Good morning…again. I’m sorry if I woke you,” he motioned to the Gascon’s chest. “That should help those bruises heal faster and take some of the sting out of them.”

 

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan answered, glancing down at the dusky blotches on his chest. Noticing Athos and Porthos at the table, he pushed himself up onto an elbow, Aramis leaning in to place a hand softly on his chest to prevent him from moving further. The young man closed his eyes for a moment before catching Aramis’ gaze, “I just want to get up and sit at the table.”

 

The medic seemed conflicted but it was difficult to deny him such a simple request after the days they’d spent apart, worrying over the boy. “Very well,” Aramis finally responded. “But you let me and Porthos help you and, if you start feeling unwell, you’ll return immediately to bed.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a satisfied grin at his victory as Aramis rolled his eyes and helped the boy sit up. When he’d adjusted to his new position, his two friends helped him stand and then guided him to one of the chairs at the table, where Athos sat waiting for the tenacious young man. He took several seconds to recover after the move and then opened his eyes and grinned at his friends, knowing well what they thought of his antics. “All I’m doing is sitting,” he pointed out, seeing the trepidation in their eyes. Letting out a small huff, he reached for a piece of bread and began picking at it, popping a small portion into his mouth. “So, what did I miss?” It was obvious that the Gascon was feeling better and Porthos poured a cup of water for him, d’Artagnan nodding gratefully as he took a sip.    

 

“In truth, we feel that we should be asking you that question,” Aramis countered.

 

d’Artagnan’s grin slipped as he recalled his time spent in captivity. “Is there anything more you can tell us that would help us identify who did this?” Athos asked. “Earlier, you seemed much less… _coherent_ than now.”

 

The Gascon ducked his head for a moment as he grimaced. “I don’t remember much from before other than my head feeling that it was twice its normal size.”

 

“And now,” Aramis leaned in, needing to confirm that the boy was actually feeling better and not just stubbornly pushing himself to ignore his infirmity.

 

“I feel much better, Aramis, really. The last thing I remember was them forcing me to drink and I think they drugged me again,” d’Artagnan admitted guiltily, eyes dipping to stare at his lap.

 

“Hey, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You can’t help it if they forced it down your throat,” Porthos declared, reaching a hand across the table to squeeze the boy’s forearm.

 

“That would explain why you were so disoriented earlier, and why you seem so improved now,” Aramis stated thoughtfully.

 

“Now that your thoughts are clearer, is there anything more you can tell us? Perhaps about where you were held?” Athos reminded him.

 

“Or the messenger who came to the garrison?” Porthos added.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes lit up at Porthos question. “It was a young boy. By the look of him, he had to be living on the streets.” He closed his eyes as his face screwed up in thought, trying to recall more about the boy. “He was dirty, wearing clothes that were too small for him. Maybe ten or eleven years of age with straw-coloured hair and blue eyes.” He turned to face Athos as he explained, “I remember because they reminded me of yours.” The comment brought a partial smile to Athos’ lips as he was often gently teased by his friends about being the only one among them with light-coloured eyes. The Gascon turned his attention back to Porthos. “That’s really all I can tell you about him, other than the fact that I thought he’d be more familiar with the streets in the Court of Miracles than elsewhere.”

 

“It’s a shame that no one else saw the boy,” Aramis commented.

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed, “But they did. There were a few men eating a late meal and they saw us talking near the gates.”

 

Athos’ face turned cold as he realized that there had been witnesses among them who could have offered valuable information to aid in their search. “Who saw you?” he asked, his tone steely.

 

“I, I’m not sure. I don’t really remember,” d’Artagnan stammered, surprised by the venomous look on his friend’s face.

 

Aramis placed a hand on Athos’ shoulder, a quiet warning to remain calm. He knew that Porthos was no happier about the news the Gascon had just shared than he was, but also trusted that none of their brothers would have intentionally withheld information while the three of them had so desperately searched. Athos huffed out on an exhale and then dropped his head for a moment, Aramis spotting the action as the older man’s way of letting him know that he’d reined in his emotions. Retracting his hand, he assured the boy, “I’m certain it’s of no consequence now. The important thing is that you’re back.”

 

Drawing a steadying breath, Athos questioned, “Earlier you said that you didn’t escape. Is that true?”

 

The Gascon thought for a moment and then gave a shaky nod. “I tried to get away – twice – but they caught me both times. The first time was when I got these,” he pointed to his chest, “and the second time I didn’t realize there was another man. He caught me from behind and knocked me out.”

 

The three men shared a look of silent communication that d’Artagnan could not decipher, and he waited for several moments before interrupting them. “What?” The men looked at him innocently, pulling a huff off frustration from the Gascon. “Don’t give me that. What aren’t you telling me?”

 

Aramis and Porthos held Athos’ gaze, silently pleading with him to be honest with the young man. Finally Athos spoke, “Fine. We believe that you were taken and then returned intentionally. However, the motive still eludes us.”

 

d’Artagnan fell silent at the suggestion that his kidnapping was part of some larger scheme. When he spoke, it was with determination, “Then we need to find the men who took me and get them to explain why.” He began to push himself upwards from the table, Aramis grasping one arm while Athos caught the other, pulling him back down into his seat. “What?” the young man looked at them in confusion.

 

“I’ll be heading out to talk with my contacts now that I’ve got a description of the child who lured you away,” Porthos stated as he rose.

 

“And you will eat something and then return to your bed to rest,” Aramis declared, refilling the young man’s water cup. “Don’t think that I can’t see that your head’s hurting again.”

 

d’Artagnan looked to Athos for some support, but the man’s face indicated nothing but complete agreement with what the others had just said. “Fine,” he grumbled unhappily, putting another piece of bread into his mouth.

 

“d’Artagnan, you must understand that we spent every day of your absence searching the streets for you, and last night the Captain had to declare you presumed dead. Please, allow us some latitude now that you have been returned to us,” Athos requested sombrely.

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head sheepishly, realizing that until that moment he’d been so preoccupied with trying to escape his captivity that he’d given little thought to how his friends had been affected. While he’d been confident that the men would be trying to find him, it hadn’t occurred to him that the garrison’s resources were finite and eventually the Captain would be forced to call off the search. That thought scared him more than he realized, not because he was afraid for himself, but because he was afraid of what would have happened to his brothers if they’d had to live without knowing what had happened to him. Swallowing thickly around the emotion welling in his throat, he gave a short nod, promising that he would allow his friends the opportunity to coddle him for a while, until they were satisfied that he was well and would not be disappearing from their midst again.

 

Porthos gave his friends a quick wave as he turned to leave, promising to return later to update them, while Aramis nudged d’Artagnan’s hand to have another bite. As the door closed behind him, Porthos could hear the medic’s words, “Did they feed you at all? I can practically count your ribs.” The large Musketeer snorted at his friend’s predictable nature as he headed for the stairs, determined to find some answers. 

* * *

The Captain was doing his best to maintain a neutral expression, the lack of sleep he’d gotten causing his head to throb mightily and the King’s comments drawing on his last reserves of patience. He kept a calm façade as he watched the King bring a hand to his head, apparently in physical pain because of the news Rochefort brought. The fact that the Spanish Ambassador had been killed didn’t overly bother Treville on a personal level, the man having been a scoundrel of the worst kind and clearly doing everything in his power to undermine the King while blithely lying to his face. On a professional level, the soldier in him knew that the Ambassador’s death could raise difficult questions and further strain the already tenuous peace between the two countries. The only option was to identify the Ambassador’s killer quickly, exacting justice before the King of Spain decided to exact his own through a formal declaration of war.

 

“Rochefort, we must find the man’s murderer before Anne’s brother gets it in his head that this was my doing,” King Louis whined.

 

Rocherfort gave a serious nod as he assured the man, “I am certain we will be able to apprehend this vile murderer and have him in irons before the sun sets.”

 

Treville forced himself not to roll his eyes at the Comte’s outrageous promise, a statement which only drew a delighted chuckle from the King, making him seem even more like a small child instead of the ruler of a great nation.

 

“How do you propose to accomplish such a feat?” Treville asked politely, forcing the disdain he felt deep into his belly so it wouldn’t color his words.

 

Rochefort graced him with a smirk and the Captain felt his insides turn to ice with the realization that the Comte had once more been conspiring against him in some manner. “It’s quite simple, Captain,” his smile grew as he explained. “I have a witness who was able to provide a description of the killer.”  The Comte began to pace slowly, savouring the moment as he forced Treville to wait for him to continue. Even the King sat forward in his chair, eagerly waiting for Rochefort to go on. “He was a man of slender build, olive-skin and dark hair.” He stopped and held Treville’s gaze as he asked, “Sound familiar?”

 

The Captain forced himself not to tense, exuding a calm demeanor that he did not feel. It was too much of a coincidence that the man who’d been missing for several days now fit the description that Rochefort was offering. “That description applies to half the men in France. Surely you don’t believe that will be enough to convict someone for murder.”

 

The Comte allowed an easy chuckle to escape, giving his head a shake. “Of course not, I would never presume to end a man’s life on such _circumstantial_ evidence as an eyewitness account.” Treville felt the knot in his stomach ease a little at the man’s confession that the information he had was insufficient to arrest, let alone convict anyone. Rochefort stopped his pacing, his expression hardening as he continued. “Luckily, we have the man’s weapons as well.” He extended a hand and a Red Guard moved away from the side wall where he’d been standing, walking forward with a belt that could undoubtedly belong to only one man. As Rochefort took the item from the guard, he drew the blade from its sheath, holding it up to light as if examining it. “A fine sword,” he commented, pinning Treville with his gaze, “worthy of a Musketeer.”

 

Treville went on the defensive, having no other option than to convince the King that it would be impossible to prove ownership of the weapons held in Rochefort’s hands. “That’s a preposterous accusation,” he stated, turning to appeal to the King. “Your Majesty, I know that the relationship between our two regiments has been difficult at times, but to accuse one of my men of such a crime is surely overstepping.”

 

The King was leaning forward again, and the Captain could see that he didn’t like the Comte’s allegation either, the Musketeers his own personal guard and, as such, typically above reproach. “Rochefort, Treville is right. This is a serious charge and you have nothing more than a vague description and someone’s sword. Is this even the blade with which the Ambassador was killed?”

 

Rochefort sheathed the blade smoothly, handing the belt back to his man. “No, actually, the murderer chose a more _personal_ approach,” he moved closer to Treville as he spoke, demonstrating the meaning of his words. “You see, he came up behind the man and sliced his throat open with a dagger.” He walked behind the Captain as he explained, Treville forcing himself not to react to the Comte’s dramatics. Completing his circuit, Rochefort moved a step away again as he pulled a main gauche from the back of his belt, “This one, as a matter of fact.” Holding it up as he’d done with earlier with the sword, he read, “CD.” Returning his gaze to the King, he said, “That’s what’s engraved here; CD. I believe those initials match those of one of your men, Treville.”

 

The Captain swallowed, his eyes on the King to gauge the man’s reaction and from the look of horror on his face, it was clear that he believed the Comte’s claims. “Your Majesty, the man to whom the Comte refers is d’Artagnan, the same man who was missing for the last four days. He was found early this morning outside of the gates, wounded and disoriented. There is no way he could have done this.”

 

The King looked uncertain and turned back to Rochefort, the man obligingly adding his thoughts, “Your Majesty, it is obvious to me that he disappeared in order to make his plans and returned upon completing his mission. As you know, the Ambassador was killed just shortly after midnight, leaving plenty of time for this Musketeer to make his way to the garrison afterwards.”

 

The King sighed unhappily, the Musketeers having disappointed him consistently over the last while and Rochefort’s words seeming reasonable under the circumstances. “This is all highly irregular and it troubles me greatly. Treville, we cannot risk war over the Ambassador’s death so you will turn your man over to the Red Guards so he may be taken to the Chatelet.” The Captain moved to protest, but Louis raised a hand and continued, “He will receive a fair hearing but, if found guilty, he will hang for his crime.”

 

“Majesty, is there no way I can convince you to allow my men to look into this. I promise to keep d’Artagnan under guard at the garrison until such time as proof of his innocence can be found.”

 

“My decision on this is final, Captain. Rochefort, you will take men to the Musketeer garrison and arrest d’Artagnan. He will have his trial in two days’ time.” The King rose from his seat and swept from the room, Treville and Rochefort both bowing as he left before moving toward one another.

 

“Captain, I have men waiting outside. We shall accompany you and see the King’s orders executed at once,” Rochefort stated, a half-smile on his face.

 

Treville gave a curt nod, turning away from the man and leading the way out. He would have preferred to return to the garrison alone, taking a few minutes to speak with the inseparables and prepare them for what was to come. As it was, he only hoped his men didn’t choose to shoot first and ask questions later, or it would be more than one of his Musketeers facing the hangman’s noose.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is why I was taken, wasn’t it?” The look on his face was devastated and Porthos moved to sit next to the boy, placing an arm around his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the last chapter, the consensus seems to be that Rochefort needs to watch his back, as there are hordes of readers out there ready to get rid of him. Can't say things really improve much for our boys in this next chapter but I hope you enjoy!

Despite his protests, d’Artagnan had been returned to his bed after he’d eaten, Aramis noting the pallor of his friend’s face as the pain in his head increased, bringing with it a resurgence of nausea. They had been lucky so far and avoided a repeat of the previous night when the Gascon had emptied his stomach, but the medic was certain they would not have been so fortunate if the boy hadn’t laid down in his bed when he had. The young man’s appearance, curled on his side asleep, brought a smile to Aramis’ face, felling content at having the boy once more among them.

 

He had been sitting there, watching over the Gascon for a couple of hours now, waiting on both Porthos and Athos to return. He was confident that the larger man would be away until late afternoon, determined not to return empty-handed in his quest to unearth the identity of the child messenger. Athos had stayed until d’Artagnan was settled comfortably in bed and then gone in search of Treville, who by then had been called to the palace. From the Gascon’s window, Aramis could see that Athos had settled at the table in the courtyard, waiting for either Treville or Porthos to return.

 

A quiet shuffling noise from d’Artagnan’s bed brought the medic’s gaze back to his patient and he could see that the young man was becoming restless and was likely to wake soon. That was fine as far as Aramis was concerned, looking forward to every opportunity to push food and drink on his overly slender friend. Several more minutes passed before d’Artagnan drew a larger breath and his eyes opened, staring into nothingness for a good half-minute as the medic observed him quietly coming awake. The young man rolled slowly onto his back, a slight wince of pain crossing his features but gone just as quickly as it had arrived, Aramis nodding to himself at the fact that the salve he’d applied earlier was helping. Not wanting to startle the man, Aramis rose silently from his seat at the table and glided over, offering a soft greeting. “Hello, d’Artagnan, awake again, I see.”

 

d’Artagnan’s head rolled lazily to the side to meet his friend’s smiling face and he gave a short nod. “I can’t believe how much I’ve been sleeping, but I admit that it’s helped.”

 

Aramis gave a knowing nod, pleased that the rest was having the desired effect. “You should never doubt me, d’Artagnan. My advice will never lead you astray.”

 

He was startled by a snort from behind him, Porthos and Athos having entered and heard his last statement. “What about the time you told him that girl Marie was sweet on ‘im?”

 

“If I recall correctly, her fiancé took great exception to d’Artagnan’s advances and he was fortunate to escape with his head still attached,” Athos added, dryly, trying to keep the amusement from his face.

 

“My friends, what would I do without you so helpfully reminding me of my occasional failings?” Aramis asked, taking the teasing in good stride.

 

Porthos let out a guffaw as he clapped a hand on the medic’s back, glancing toward the Gascon and pleased that their bantering had brought a grin to the boy’s face. “Feelin’ better?” he asked as he watched d’Artagnan push himself to a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of the bed.

 

“Much,” he replied, slowing rising to a standing position, holding a hand up to Aramis to indicate he was alright as he momentarily swayed and then steadied. With a grin to his friends, he moved to the chest at the foot of his bed, intending to find a clean shirt. As he carefully bent to rummage inside, he asked, “What did you find out about the boy?”

 

Porthos’ expression turned uneasy, clearly unhappy with the information he’d gathered. “I managed to get a name – Christophe. He’s been alone since age five, pickin’ pockets and doing any manner of odd job that’ll earn ‘im some coin.” The irony of the child’s story was not lost on his friends, recognizing the similarities between Porthos’ experience and the boy’s.

 

As d’Artagnan tucked the hem of his shirt into his breeches, Athos spoke up, trying to refocus the conversation back on their original objective of identifying the Gascon’s kidnappers. “Did you manage to speak with him?”

 

“No,” he shook his head. “He’s slippery and it seems he’s gone to ground for a bit. My guess is he earned a good payday for his role in trickin’ the lad and is layin’ low until he runs out of money.”

 

“Surely a boy of that age would still have someone taking care of him?” Aramis pressed, unhappy at the thought of their only clue leading to a dead end.

 

“Probably,” Porthos conceded. “Most of the children are organized and they give back a portion of what they earn…” He trailed off, rubbing a hand across his jaw as he considered his next words. “It was odd, no one wanted to say who Christophe’s workin’ for. I’ve got Flea lookin’ into it for me but it might take a day or two.”

 

d’Artagnan looked to the other two men from where he sat, back again on the edge of the bed so he could pull on his boots. Both seemed satisfied with Porthos’ explanation and Athos gave a short nod, “I went to speak with Treville, but he’d been summoned to the palace. I’ll share these additional details with him when he returns. Until then…”

 

He was interrupted by a knock, the door swinging open before anyone even had a chance to move. When Treville could see inside, he found Athos and Porthos facing him with hands on their pistols, and Aramis preparing to leap towards d’Artagnan to protect him. Sighing, the Captain stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind him, realizing how on edge the four were and that his news would do nothing to ease their anxiety. “d’Artagnan,” he nodded at the young man. “It’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine sir,” d’Artagnan answered automatically.

 

“Captain, what brings you here?” Athos queried, correctly reading the tension in the man’s face and posture.

 

“I need your word that you will hear me out and take no action unless we’ve all agreed,” Treville stated, knowing the magnitude of what he was asking, but praying that the loyalty he’d earned from his men throughout the years would carry them through the next several days.

 

“Captain,” Porthos began but Treville stopped him with a hand.

 

“I need your word,” he repeated. “Please, trust me.”

 

The three looked to Athos as the Captain had expected and Treville held his breath a moment as he met his lieutenant’s gaze, infusing his expression with as much sincerity as he could muster to convince the man to support his request. Finally, Athos responded, “Very well, Captain, we give you our word.” He could see the other three nodding behind him in agreement.

 

“Thank you,” the Captain acknowledged. “The Ambassador to Spain was murdered and Rochefort has been tasked with the responsibility of apprehending the killer.” Athos’ heart clenched as his eyes drifted to the Gascon, Porthos and Aramis noticing and glancing at their youngest who still waited for the Captain to finish speaking.

 

“When was he killed?” Aramis asked, already dreading the answer.

 

“Around midnight, last night,” Treville replied.  “d’Artagnan, there are Red Guards waiting outside to arrest you and take you to the Chatelet where you will remain until your trial commences in two days’ time.”

  

“What?” the Gascon sputtered, shocked at the accusation. “But I was being held against my will at that point. You didn’t find me until hours later.”

 

Treville nodded wearily and Athos could see how much his current duty was weighing on him. “Rochefort believes his disappearance was part of it,” Athos stated, certain of his words even before he saw the confirmation in the Captain’s eyes.

 

Porthos swore as he glared at the officer, “You can’t tell me you believe he did this. You saw the shape he was in when you found him.”

 

Aramis joined in immediately after, adding his own words in d’Artagnan’s defense, “What proof do they have of d’Artagnan’s involvement?”

 

“They have a witness as well as his sword and main gauche, and Rochefort has confirmed that the latter was the weapon used to slit the Ambassador’s throat,” Treville revealed unhappily.

 

The men fell silent at the Captain’s words, recalling well the day when Athos had gifted d’Artagnan with the engraved and deadly dagger.

 

_The bandits they’d been pursuing had split into two groups in a last ditch effort to get away from the Musketeers who pursued them. Both groups were small, consisting of only three men, so Athos had no qualms about dividing their quartet so that each could pursue one of the trios. d’Artagnan had ended up beside Athos when the older man had successfully shot one of the men trying to evade them, bringing their quarry down to two. The Gascon had dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, drawing his sword as he closed the distance between himself and one of the bandits, happy to leave the last man to Athos’ expertise. After clashing blades on horseback, d’Artagnan and his opponent had eventually ended up facing each other on the ground, the challenges of managing both beast and blade an unwelcome trial. The young man knew he had the bandit on the defensive and was confident of defeating him with another few well-placed strikes, and he spared a glance in Athos’ direction to confirm the man was also winning his contest._

_What he saw disturbed him, a patch of red high on Athos’ right shoulder indicating where the bandit had managed to draw blood. The Musketeer still held his blade in his dominant right hand, but d’Artagnan could tell that it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to defend himself. Another slash at his opponent gave him a second opportunity to look in Athos’ direction and he frowned as he saw the bandit pushing Athos inexorably backwards with each punishing blow, towards, what d’Artagnan remembered, was the edge of a particularly high cliff, overlooking the river below. Fear now gripped him and made his sword arm strong, and the Gascon wasted no more time toying with his opponent, finishing the man with a final thrust to the chest. As soon as his blade was free of the bandit’s body, d’Artagnan was turning and running toward his friend, Athos now standing dangerously close to the edge of the precipice. Time seemed to slow as Athos managed to clumsily avoid the strike aimed at his side, and moved just far enough out of the way for the bandit to overbalance and bring him within Athos’ reach. The Musketeer took advantage and grabbed at his attacker’s doublet, pulling him forward enough so the man’s momentum brought him over the edge and into empty air, falling into nothingness. d’Artagnan experienced a split second of relief before he watched Athos waver, his back foot searching for firm ground and finding nothing to hold him. He began to fall as well, the Gascon flinging himself forward as he dropped his sword, managing to catch Athos’ left hand as he swung precariously over empty space._

_As lean as d’Artagnan was, he’d never considered his build a disadvantage, at least, not until that moment. Gravity could not be convinced that the Gascon was the heavier man and Athos’ weight had them both sliding further downwards, Athos now pleading with d’Artagnan to release him. d’Artagnan’s fury spiked as he growled an inarticulate “No!”, reaching for his dagger to plunge it into the ground, momentarily halting their downward descent. The Gascon had screamed, ranted and begged Athos to climb upwards, as all the while their combined weight bent the blade of the young man’s main gauche. The older man had struggled his way upwards and, if asked, neither could explain where he’d found the energy to complete the task. By the time their two friends had dealt with the other bandits and found their way back to re-join them, the two men lay side-by-side at the edge of the cliff, utterly spent. Aramis had fussed over Athos’ wound while Porthos had whistled lowly at the damaged dagger but, to his surprise, d’Artagnan had merely grinned like an idiot at how well the short blade had performed._

_It was weeks later when Athos’ wound had healed and they were sharing a lazy meal together in the sunshine that the older man had presented d’Artagnan with a cloth-wrapped bundle. The Gascon had looked at him in surprise but Athos gave away nothing and waited patiently for the boy to open his gift as the other two men watched. When the brown sacking fell apart, d’Artagnan had inhaled sharply at the dagger that was revealed. It was beautifully designed, but clearly still a soldier’s weapon, with a blade that was both honed to a fine edge and so perfectly balanced that the young man knew immediately he’d been spoiled for any other blade. “Athos, I can’t possibly accept this,” d’Artagnan said, eyes still drawn to the main gauche. “It’s too much.”_

_“Is my life not worth as much?” Athos asked._

_“What?” the Gascon stammered, caught off guard by the odd question. “Your life is worth far more than this.”_

_Athos nodded sagely, “Then you will accept it as a token of gratitude for having saved it.” He’d walked away at that point, leaving d’Artagnan inspecting the dagger to find where Athos had had it engraved with his initials, while his two friends looked on fondly with smiles on their faces._

 

d’Artagnan looked around his room, realizing for the first time that his weapons were missing. “They took them from me so they could implicate me. This is why I was taken, wasn’t it?” The look on his face was devastated and Porthos moved to sit next to the boy, placing an arm around his shoulder.

 

“The King has spoken on this?” Athos questioned, already fearing the answer.

 

“Yes, Rochefort has the King’s ear in this and Louis fears war with Spain if a swift resolution isn’t found,” Treville confirmed.

 

d’Artagnan drew a steadying breath as he stood, Porthos rising with him. “Alright, I’m ready to go.”

 

Athos was at once proud and devastated that his protégé would so willingly give himself up, and he watched as Aramis snagged the Gascon’s doublet, handing it to him as he said, “It may feel warm outside but inside the prison walls it’s cold. Best put this on.” He waited until d’Artagnan had done as he’d asked and then drew the young man into a hug, holding him for several seconds before releasing him.

 

As the medic stepped away, Porthos stepped forward to embrace the boy, whispering quietly in his ear, “Do whatever it takes to stay alive until we can fix this.” d’Artagnan nodded and the larger man released him, stepping back to join Aramis as the two waited for Athos’ reaction. The young man took a couple of hesitant steps forward, uncertain about how to interpret the look on his mentor’s face. He raised a tentative arm, intending to shake the man’s hand and was pulled abruptly forward as Athos gripped him tightly, d’Artagnan leaning into the comfort of the older man’s hold. “We will find the evidence to exonerate you from these charges. Have faith in us,” Athos declared lowly.

 

When they parted, d’Artagnan locked gazes with Treville, repeating his earlier words, “I’m ready.” The Captain turned and led the way outside, d’Artagnan following with his head held high as they made their way along the walkway and descended to the courtyard. The three inseparables stopped at the top of the stairs, Athos pinning Rochefort with a harsh glare as the other man simply nodded in greeting, a sick smile of satisfaction painting his face. The guards made quick work of securing d’Artagnan’s hands in front of him and the Musketeers watched as the Red Guards left the garrison, taking their recently returned brother with them.

 

When the group was out of sight, Treville looked up to where the three men were still standing, their morose mood tangible even across the distance that separated them. He turned wearily toward the stairs and climbed slowly, feeling every one of his years pressing down on him at having surrendered one of their own to the Red Guards. When he reached the top of the stairs, he turned toward his office, knowing intuitively that the others would follow, surely eager to create a plan of action that would see their fourth returned to them. He pushed open the door to his office, removing his weapons and laying them on a side table before pulling out four glasses and his best brandy, distributing the glasses before splashing a healthy measure of the strong amber liquid into each. They drank deeply, Aramis refilling the glasses as Treville took his seat, sitting back to look at the men standing before him. As he’d expected, the men wore matching expressions of devastation mixed with anguish, and he was certain that, if asked, each man would claim responsibility for the Gascon’s current predicament, even though the notion was utterly ridiculous. If anyone in the room deserved the blame, it was him, and a part of him was disgusted again at his inability to protect the men under his command.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” Porthos broke the silence, asking the question that consumed all their thoughts.

 

The Captain’s gaze drifted across the men, the look on Athos’ face daring him to state that he had no plan, and promising retribution if that were the case. “We have two options. We either find the real killer or find the evidence needed to clear his name. The King has promised a fair trial, but that will mean little if we have nothing that refutes the evidence in Rocehfort’s hands.”

 

Athos’ face was thoughtful and Treville knew he was putting his strong tactician’s mind to the problem. “The evidence that Rochefort possesses – a witness and d’Artagnan’s weapons. Who is the witness?”

 

Treville pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache that sat dully behind his eyes as he answered, “His aide, Navas. The description he gave fit d’Artagnan and I’m certain he’ll be present at the trial to identify him as Perales’ killer.”

 

“So our best course of action is to identify the true killer,” Aramis stated.

 

“And our best lead is to find the child, Christophe, and find out who hired him,” Porthos concluded.

 

At the questioning look on the Captain’s face, Athos elaborated, “Porthos was able to identify the child who lured d’Artagnan from the garrison, but he’s pulled a disappearing act of his own. We’re hopeful that Flea will be able to track him down for us.”

 

“That’s does seem our best course of action,” Treville agreed. The statement brought little comfort to the group and they were painfully aware that two days might be wholly insufficient to accomplish their daunting task. Of course, they’d faced similar odds when Athos had been accused and they’d successfully cleared his name; none of them wanted to be reminded that, in that instance, Athos had already been standing in front of the firing squad and a delay of even another minute would have seen their friend taken from them permanently. With nothing further to discuss, the men filed from the room, Treville pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward him along with a quill. There was little he could do to help the three with their current task but he could take steps to formulate a contingency plan if it should become necessary. With a heavy hand, he dipped his quill into the ink and began to compose his message.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis stepped in, putting into words what the older man couldn’t, “d’Artagnan, what Athos means to say is that we’ve faced these odds before and prevailed. Have faith that we will do so again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's decided to read, comment and leave kudos on this story, and continued thanks to tinadp for catching the mistakes I've missed. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The trip to the Chatelet was painful on so many levels as d’Artagnan’s various aches reawakened during the long walk, but the embarrassment of being treated like a common criminal, apparent by the disgusted looks he received as they travelled the streets, pained him more than any of his physical hurts. He was surprised when the guards who surrounded him didn’t take advantage of their position by harming him further, but once he’d arrived within the walls of the prison, he understood why – it was far easier to inflict pain once his hands were shackled in irons and he was hidden away from prying eyes. It had begun with a hard shove as he’d been pushed through the narrow doorways that led to the cells. He’d managed to catch himself against a wall, the short chain between his wrists clanging as it struck the stone that now surrounded him.

 

The walk to his cell was accompanied by the jeering of other prisoners, the worst among them enthusiastic at seeing another man joining in their suffering. When he turned his head after a shout from a particularly rowdy resident, he received a painful blow to his cheek that left his head ringing and clouded his sight for several seconds, forcing him to stumble along despite not being able to see his path as he tried to recover from the blow. When they reached his cell, the jailor opened the door and he was pushed forward with a booted foot on his backside. The strong shove had been expected but the follow-up strike that hit his lower back was not, and the pain of it brought him to his knees and was followed by another punch to the face. As he toppled to his side, he was vaguely aware of the men’s harsh laughter as they turned away, firmly closing the door behind them.

 

d’Artagnan knew he should move but it seemed too overwhelming a task, so he laid on the filthy floor, feeling the cold seeping into his side, relishing the numbness that was permeating his tender and pounding head. He knew from previous experience that time was meaningless inside the prison and, as such, had no idea how long he lay there, gathering his strength and sufficient motivation to push himself to a seated position before crawling over to the wall nearest the door, where he collapsed against it. He knew that his friends would be working tirelessly on his behalf and he was grateful, but a part of him wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to simply allow Rochefort his victory. Was it possible that with his death, the Comte might cease his aggressions toward the Musketeers, preventing the thing that he feared most, the dissolution of the regiment? Inhaling shakily, he pushed the thought from his mind, recognizing that his friends would be outraged that he would even consider giving up. Porthos had vocalized what all of them felt when he’d ordered the Gascon to do whatever it took to stay alive and, in his heart, d’Artagnan knew that his was the easier task, simply having to stay out of trouble long enough for the three to clear his name. Having reached his decision and, once more mentally prepared for his confinement, d’Artagnan wrapped his arms tightly around himself, hands in his armpits, and allowed his eyes to close, letting sleep give him some reprieve from the cool, dark space that held him.

 

His respite was short-lived as the guards had apparently decided to take full advantage of the fact that they had a disgraced Musketeer in their midst, far away from the camaraderie and protection of his brothers-in-arms. He had men in his cell three times during what he believed to be the night, the cell having no windows which could aid the Gascon in keeping track of the hours. Instead, when a new jailer arrived in the morning with an extremely unappetizing meal, he deduced that a new day had arrived, bringing with it a change of guard. He breathed a careful sigh of relief, hoping the animosity that he’d been shown during the night was restricted to the men who’d harassed him throughout the evening hours, forcing him to stay awake and cower against the wall as he’d curled into himself time and again in order to protect his torso from the boots and fists that pummeled him. He pushed at the plate that held his breakfast, moving it further away, as his other arm braced his sore ribs. He’d only been apart from his friends for a night and yet he felt their absence keenly, knowing that if he were at the garrison, he would be eating a good meal and Aramis would be fussing over his injuries. The thought brought a grimace to his face as he imagined the medic’s reaction to the increasingly colorful tapestry that now covered his back and chest. The scolding he would receive would be worth it, he decided, as long as it meant that his name had been cleared and he could once more be in his brothers’ company.

 

The sound of footsteps alerted him to another’s presence, and d’Artagnan pushed himself further upright, staring at the entrance in preparation for another beating. When the door opened, he was surprised to see the Comte de Rochefort enter, the man looking around in disdain at the dank and grimy interior. When he’d finished his examination, his gaze landed on the Gascon, a mirthless smile on his face. “Good morning, d’Artagnan. I trust your night was uneventful?”

 

The Gascon’s ire rose at the comment but Athos’ words rung in his head and he maintained a calm demeanor as he replied, “I suspect it was similar to the time you spent in the Spaniards’ hands.”

 

A flicker of annoyance danced across Rochefort’s face before the man could quash it. “I assure you, you are far more fortunate to be in a French prison.” The comment seemed to serve its purpose, the Comte’s arrogance reasserting itself. “You will stand on trial before the King and your peers tomorrow and will be found guilty of a most heinous act. It would be far easier if you simply admitted your part and saved your fellow Musketeers the embarrassment of a trial.”

 

Again, d’Artagnan felt his blood stir as the man’s words tried to provoke a reaction, but once more the Gascon resisted and offered a reasonable reply, “I’m certain my brothers would very vocal in their censure if I were to admit to a crime I did not commit. Therefore, I cannot accept your suggestion.”

 

Rochefort’s expression turned sour, as though he’d tasted something foul as he continued to consider the young man in front of him. “Despite their disapproval, surely there are some things that are more important. The ongoing wellbeing of the regiment, for example.”

 

d’Artagnan schooled his features as he countered, “Is that a threat, Comte?”

 

Rochefort offered a cool smile, “A threat? d’Artagnan, I am the Captain of the Red Guards and advisor to the King. What reason would I possibly have for threatening an already discredited Musketeer who is destined to be swinging from the end of a rope in two days?”

 

The Gascon’s hands clenched into fists, his emotions closer to the surface than he wanted to admit as the man continued to goad him. “Then I wonder why the Captain of the Red Guards would be wasting his time within the walls of the Chatelet.”

 

Rochefort stared at him for several long seconds and d’Artagnan waited to see if the man would reply, but he simply turned on his heel as he headed for the door. “Remember, d’Artagnan, I gave you the opportunity to forgo the humiliation of a trial. I will not make such a generous offer again.”

 

With those words he was gone and the door clanged closed behind him, d’Artagnan letting out a shaky exhale at the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Despite the lack of proper rest and food which made his limbs weak and his head pound, he struggled up to his feet, needing the release that only physical activity could provide. His steps were hesitant and disjointed, his focus on replaying the conversation with Rochefort, trying to figure out the motive behind the man’s visit. From what he’d been told, the evidence against him was damming and his best chance lay in his friends’ ability to find the real killer. This was the only situation d’Artagnan could conceive where his admission of guilt would supersede anything else the three men discovered.

 

Was Rochefort concerned that the true murderer would be discovered? Would the man’s identity implicate the Comte in some manner? The longer he thought about the odd situation, the more he believed himself to be correct, bringing with it an overwhelming need to speak with his brothers so he could pass his conclusions along. Stepping to the cell door, he called out, “Jailor! I need to speak with you.” He allowed several long moments to pass and was finally rewarded when the door to his prison opened and a guard appeared. “I need to speak with the Musketeer Athos.”

 

The guard grunted his displeasure. “Think you’re in a position to be makin’ demands, do ya?” the man jeered at him.

 

d’Artagnan raised his hands in supplication, trying to reason with the man, “No, I just need someone to get a message to the Musketeer garrison.”

 

The guard didn’t wait for him to finish, striding forward to strike at the Gascon with a wooden club, forcing the young man to turn away as the blows landed on his back. After the third one, he found himself dropping to his knees and the man swung a last time before barking in laughter. “Stupid Musketeer,” he said as he exited, locking the door behind him. d’Artagnan allowed himself to slump against the wall as the new bruises on his back blossomed and he breathed heavily from the pain and frustration of his situation; clearly, help didn’t lie within these walls and he would have to wait and hope that his friends were able to piece together the puzzle that wrongfully imprisoned him. 

* * *

Morning brought with it little of the usual hope that the dawn of a new day usually did. The three Musketeers had had little interest in their usual distractions and instead ended up at Athos’ rooms, their drinking sombre and centred on easing their guilt and worry about d’Artagnan’s situation. When they awoke from their wine-induced slumber, it was no surprise that Athos announced that he would be travelling to the Chatelet with the intention of checking on their youngest. All of them knew that the guards could not seriously harm the boy, since he’d need to be able to stand trial the following day, but that didn’t mean that his time inside the prison would be anywhere close to pleasant.

 

The older man knew that the Gascon was better prepared than either of his other friends to handle the ordeal of being locked up, having successfully survived once before; he also knew that one’s state of mind played a large part in one’s ability to bear the despair and humiliation present inside the bleak stone walls, and this time the young man was likely to be understandably lacking in optimism for a positive outcome. Athos didn’t judge him harshly for that, recognizing that it was no reflection on him and his friends, simply the realism of the situation which meant that if the real killer was not found, the King _would_ condemn d’Artagnan to die in order to maintain peace with Spain.   

 

The three ate a subdued meal, more at Aramis’ insistence than because of any real appetite, until Athos’ glare finally silenced the medic and the man gave a reluctant nod of understanding as the older Musketeer pushed away his plate. They departed the garrison together, Porthos moving away from them after a few streets as he made his way to talk with Flea, while Athos and Aramis continued on to the Chatelet. When they arrived, the Governor of the prison was less than pleased to see them but eventually agreed to allow them inside to see d’Artagnan after Athos persuaded him by handing over the majority of his purse. The two men ducked inside the narrow doorway, stepping down into the dim corridors that led to the cells, Aramis shuddering involuntarily at the thought of their youngest having spent the night in such a place. Athos gave him a look of understanding, grasping his arm for a moment to reassure him, Aramis nodding back in thanks to let him know that he was alright. Athos didn’t believe him and expected the man to be even more unsettled once they’d seen the boy, especially if his concerns regarding d’Artagnan’s treatment proved true.

 

When they arrived outside the young man’s cell, the guard hesitated until glared into submission by Athos’ cold stare combined with the hand that lay menacingly on the hilt of his sword. The guard opened the door and then backed away warily, allowing the two men to enter. d’Artagnan leaned against the far wall, apparently having decided at some point that being further away from the door was a safer alternative. The men could tell that the Gascon was awake although fatigue weighed on him heavily if his slow reactions and half-lidded eyes were anything to go by. Despite his weariness, d’Artagnan’s face lit up at the sight of his friends, and he pushed himself to his feet, warily looking over their shoulders at the guard who hovered by the door. Turning to the man, Athos ordered, “Leave us. Wait outside the door if you wish, but we’d like a minute alone.” Again, the man hesitated for several seconds, but finally decided he could stand guard just as well outside as he could inside the cell.

 

As soon as he was gone, Aramis stepped forward, hands on the Gascon’s upper arms as he looked for signs of injury, eyes narrowing at the dark bruising that painted the right side of his face. The normalness of the act brought a smile to d’Artagnan’s face, which only broadened when Aramis gave him a confused look. “Nothing,” the young man shook his head, “it’s just so very good to see you.”

 

Aramis returned the smile at the boy’s words, but he didn’t remove his hands. “How are you?” As d’Artagnan drew a breath to reply, the medic interrupted him. “The truth, d’Artagnan. How are you?’

 

The young man’s smile turned rueful as he looked down for a moment before meeting his friend’s eyes, “I’m not fine, but I am alright. They’ve been careful not to do any permanent damage.” Aramis’ hand moved to the bottom of d’Artagnan’s doublet, intending to lift it but the Gascon caught his hand and locked gazes with the man, “No, Aramis. It’s just bruises and there’s nothing to be done about them while I’m in here. The best way to help me is to find the Ambassador’s killer.” Aramis held the boy’s gaze for a moment before letting his hand drop, not liking the Gascon’s words but recognizing the truth of them. He stepped back allowing Athos to move closer, knowing that the older man also needed to confirm that d’Artagnan was largely whole. Before he could so much as greet the young man, d’Artagnan was speaking, checking furtively to confirm their relative privacy. “Thank you for coming, Athos. I wasn’t sure my message would reach you.”

 

“What message?” Athos asked, his brow furrowed.

 

"Didn't you get my message that I needed to speak with you?” d’Artagnan queried, now confused as well.

 

“d’Artagnan, there was no message. We’re here to make sure you’re alright.” Aramis clarified.

 

Aramis’ reply confirmed d’Artagnan’s earlier suspicions that he could not rely on any help at the prison, and he filed the information away, determined to share his thoughts while he had the opportunity to do so. “No matter. Rochefort came to visit me earlier.” Athos immediately stiffened at the mention of the Comte’s name and d’Artagnan gave him a look that let him know he was alright, needing to keep him calm and focused. “He tried to get me to give him a confession, suggesting that it would be in the best interests of the regiment.”

 

“But he has overwhelming evidence of your guilt. Why bother with a confession?” Aramis puzzled.

 

“He’s afraid that our investigation will uncover something that implicates him,” Athos stated with confidence.

 

Aramis threw Athos a sharp look, but a glance in d’Artagnan’s direction confirmed the older man’s statement. “You concluded the same,” the medic stated to the Gascon.

 

The young man gave a small dip of his head, “That’s what I wanted to share with you. It’s the only reason that makes any sense.”

 

“Clearing you may have the secondary benefit of having Rochefort fall out of favor with the King,” Athos said thoughtfully.

 

“Or, at the very least, lessen some of the pressure that he seems to be exerting against the regiment at present,” Aramis added.

 

“That will be our line of investigation, then,” Athos concluded. “d’Artagnan, Porthos was able to identify the child who deceived you and is at the Court now, trying to find and question him.” Motioning to Aramis, he said, “We’ll work from the other end and try to find evidence of Rochefort’s involvement. Trust that we’ll find what’s needed to clear you.”

 

d’Artagnan gave his mentor a smile that he didn’t really feel, not wanting his friends to be distracted from their mission by his morose mood. He’d been able to push his feelings of dread away as he’d spoken with his friends, but knew that they would shortly have to go, leaving him once more alone with his thoughts. Swallowing, he forced himself to nod at Athos’ words, even as he emotionally distanced himself in preparation for their departure.

 

As if sensing his mood, Athos addressed him again, “d’Artagnan…” He trailed off, uncertain what he could say to the boy so that he didn’t lose hope.

 

Aramis stepped in, putting into words what the older man couldn’t, “d’Artagnan, what Athos means to say is that we’ve faced these odds before and prevailed. Have faith that we will do so again.”

 

Athos nodded gratefully in agreement with the medic’s words as well as the sentiment, even as the stiffness in the Gascon’s shoulders eased just slightly. Clasping the young man’s shoulder for a moment, he said, “It’s unlikely that we’ll be allowed back in here again, but we’ll be at your trial tomorrow. Just…keep yourself safe until then.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded, his hand lifting to momentarily cover Athos’ where it still sat on his shoulder. Aramis stepped closer and squeezed his other shoulder, offering an encouraging smile before turning toward the door, Athos following a moment later. The Gascon kept a smile on his face as he watched the two depart, his face falling again when they were gone. He exhaled slowly, looking around his drab surroundings, resigned that his fate rested in the hands of his friends. As he moved back to his spot at the wall and slid down to the ground, he tipped his aching head backwards and let his eyes close, hopeful that his future would look brighter the next time he opened them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days with nothing but his thoughts was far too much time to face and yet he could not claim to want to die any sooner, holding out hope that his brothers would find a way to visit before he saw them one last time from the gallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The consensus from reviewers seems to be that Rochefort should meet an unpleasant end and I think that view will be reinforced by this next chapter. Hope you enjoy!

The day passed both far too slowly and far too quickly, their investigation once more at a standstill as Porthos returned frustrated and empty-handed, with no news from Flea. Athos had spoken with the Captain and the two had travelled to the palace to seek an audience with Rochefort, hoping that the man might give something away, but were stonewalled at every turn, finally returning to the garrison after a series of excuses that ended with a statement that the Comte was outside of the city and no one knew when he would return. To the two Musketeers, it was clear that the man was purposely avoiding them, but with no knowledge of the Comte’s location, there was little more to be done. As a result, they found themselves once more in Treville’s office, the man’s brandy having made a welcome reappearance as they discussed the following day’s trial. Sadly, there was very little strategizing to be done, beyond a general agreement that the men would be there to testify on the Gascon’s behalf and a promise, elicited by the Captain, that the three would not disrupt the proceedings in any way, regardless of the outcome.

 

The next day found the Musketeers travelling through the city to attend the young man’s trial, the mood among them solemn and expectant as they hoped for the best, but anticipated the worst. Porthos had visited the Court once more before they’d departed, but the look on his face when he’d returned had told his friends the full story of his failed excursion. With no name to offer in d’Artagnan’s place, the trial seemed a mere formality and the Captain prepared himself to plead for additional time to bring the true murderer to justice. The three men stood as close to the front of the room as they were allowed, only Treville and Rochefort standing in the front half of the room, facing the members of the court. Athos was devastated to see the number of people in attendance who would bear witness to d’Artagnan’s downfall as he was proclaimed guilty.

 

A murmuring near the back of the room alerted him to d’Artagnan’s entrance as the young man was led in, hands still shackled in front of him and surrounded by a group of Red Guards. He caught his friends’ eyes as he passed, shuffled forward too quickly for any conversation and positioned at the front of the room to face his accusers, Treville automatically sidling closer to offer morale support. The court was brought to order and d’Artagnan planted his feet, determined not to let his posture display the fear and frustration that he felt at the injustice of his current predicament.

 

“Your Majesty,” Rochefort bowed as he addressed the King, “honored members of the court. We are here to present evidence of this man’s guilt in the senseless and bloody murder of the Spanish Ambassador.” Porthos couldn’t help himself and he rolled his eyes at the obvious theatrics of the man’s delivery, heart sinking a moment later as he noted how raptly everyone was hanging off of Rochefort’s words. “It is with a heavy heart that I bring this matter before the court, but even the King’s Musketeers must be made to account for their actions.”

 

As the Comte finished speaking, Treville took a step forward, trying to contain the damage of the man’s introductory words. “Your Majesty, if it please the members of the court, I would ask that you remember that this fine young man has yet to be convicted of anything and that you hear the evidence against him with an open mind.”

 

The King nodded, the other men seated with him taking their cue from him, and Treville was satisfied that, at least for the moment, no decision regarding d’Artagnan’s guilt or innocence had been made. Rochefort took the opportunity to take over once more, launching into a speech about the weapons used. As he brandished the dagger, sunlight gleaming wickedly off the sharp blade, he addressed the Gascon, “d’Artagnan, do you recognize this?”

 

Knowing that there was no benefit in lying, he answered in a clear voice, “Yes, it’s mine.”

 

“And do you know where it was found?” the Comte continued, now brandishing the blade in front of the members of the court, ensuring they all had a good look at the murder weapon.

 

“I’ve been _informed_ that it was the weapon used to kill the Ambassador. I can’t comment any further since I was kidnapped and it was taken from me nearly a week ago,” d’Artagnan responded.

 

“Ah, yes, I heard about that. I understand that you were missing until several hours after the Ambassador’s death. I suppose that means that you have no proof of your whereabouts and it’s entirely possible that you were at the Ambassador’s residence completing this most monstrous deed.” the Comte stated smugly. Rochefort continued to move around the space near the front of the large room, addressing his most damming comments to the men who would determine d’Artagnan’s fate.

 

Treville stepped forward to get everyone’s attention as he interjected, “There is no proof that d’Artagnan was in the Ambassador’s quarters while he was missing and, when we found him, he was in no condition to even stand on his own, let alone murder someone.”

 

“No, no proof at all except this dagger, which d’Artagnan has already identified as belonging to him,” the Comte countered smoothly.

 

“Comte Rochefort, I believe you have more evidence implicating this Musketeer,” King Louis prompted, unwilling to allow the two captains to continue arguing.

 

“Of course, your Majesty,” Rochefort demurred. SeñorNavas, will you please step forward?” The Ambassador’s aide separated himself from the rest of the audience in the room, ignoring the glares of the Musketeers as he presented himself. “Señor, please accept my most sincere condolences on the Ambassador’s death. We,” he motioned to those gathered around him, “would be most grateful if you would identify the man you saw kill Ambassador Perales.”

 

Navas raised an arm and unerringly pointed to where d’Artagnan stood, the Gascon biting his lip hard to stop the retort that threatened to be voiced. “It was that man. I was too late to stop him from killing the Ambassador, but I saw his face clearly as he fled like the cowardly cur that he is.” d’Artagnan guessed that the man would have spit on the ground, had they been outside, but decorum prevented the act.

 

Rochefort’s face twisted into a mirthless smile at the Spaniard’s words and the Gascon knew for a fact that everything was proceeding according to the Comte’s plans. “Your Majesty, this amounts to an act of treason and requires a punishment suited to the enormity of the crime.”

 

d’Artagnan did his best to focus on what was being said around him, but the truth was that Navas’ words had condemned him and all that was left was for the sentence to be announced. It was the outcome he’d hoped against, but a large part of him had expected, knowing that his friends had a monumental task ahead of them to find the real killer in the paltry time they’d had. He wasn’t keen on dying but he knew in his heart that he would not beg for his life. He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that he would likely die in service to his country and, while the circumstances were far different than anything he’d imagined, his death would ensure peace with Spain, allowing him an honorable enough death even though there would only be a handful of people who recognized it as such. Vaguely, he was aware that the King was speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words over the buzzing in his ears, his brow furrowing unknowingly in surprise at how disconnected he was feeling from everything going on around him.

 

It seemed that the trial was over as guards approached him on both sides, turning him around to march him back out of the room. He caught a glimpse of the Captain and did his best to offer the man a smile, not wanting him to feel guilty for failing to prevent his death. Treville frowned back at him but there was no time for anything more as he was pushed forward, retracing the steps they’d followed earlier. His gaze drifted across his three friends, looks of disgust and anger on their faces, Aramis and Porthos speaking while Athos stared at him with a stricken expression. He tried to reassure them, but his mouth felt somehow numb, his lips moving but no sound coming and he stumbled at another hard push from behind, barely catching himself when one of the guards at his side roughly grabbed his bicep to steady him. His head turned once more toward his friends, the look on Athos’ face now looking panicked and d’Artagnan wondered what had happened to put that expression on his mentor’s face. But there was no opportunity to ask as moments later they’d exited the room and he was pushed into the back of a cart to be taken back to the Chatelet. The Gascon tried to pay attention as guards climbed in behind him, but his vision seemed to be narrowing, darkness pushing in at the edges, and he couldn’t be bothered to fight it, letting his eyes drift close instead and welcoming the blackness.

 

His return to awareness was shocking in its intensity, pain in his head and side jarring him awake and leaving him dazed and disoriented as he looked around his surroundings, groaning as he recognized the dank cell from before. One of the guards who had apparently helped carry him here and then dropped him unceremoniously now laughed at the look on the Gascon’s face. “Don’t worry,” he jeered, “you’ll only be here a couple of days before you’re swinging from the end of a rope.”

 

The other guard guffawed loudly at his comrade’s comment and the two turned and left, locking the door behind them. At least he had his answer now; he’d been fairly confident that he’d been found guilty and the guard’s words confirmed it. He had two days until he’d be at the end of a hangman’s noose. Pushing himself to a seated position, wincing at the aches that had been reawakened by his rough handling, he wondered at his friends’ reactions. He knew that they would be angry and upset, but he didn’t want them wallowing in guilt over his death. Athos, especially, carried far too heavy a burden, often taking responsibility for events beyond his control, and he wanted more than anything to elicit a promise from the man that he would not blame himself for d’Artagnan’s end. Idly, he wondered if a priest would come to absolve him and if he might have one last chance to say good-bye to his friends. It was customary, he believed, to be allowed an opportunity to make peace, but perhaps his situation was different, his crime too serious to allow such a courtesy to a condemned man. He sighed, his breath hitching abruptly as the action pulled on still tender ribs and he scrubbed a hand across his face in frustration. Two days with nothing but his thoughts was far too much time to face and yet he could not claim to want to die any sooner, holding out hope that his brothers would find a way to visit before he saw them one last time from the gallows. 

* * *

The room had erupted when the King proclaimed d’Artagnan guilty, sentencing him to hang the following day. Treville had moved forward to plead with the royal immediately, while Rochefort moved to stand next to Navas, the two men practically crowing at their success in proving the boy’s guilt. As d’Artagnan had been led away, the Captain caught a glimpse of the young man’s face and his brow furrowed in confusion at the look he saw there, the boy seemingly unaware and detached from everything going on around him. Filing the piece of information away for later, he’d forged ahead, eyes locked firmly on the King, ready to beseech the man for more time in order to prove d’Artagnan’s innocence. While it was a hollow victory, in the end the King had relented, postponing the Gascon’s death by another day which the Musketeers could use to find the real killer.

 

In the back half of the room, people were calling out and pushing as d’Artagnan was led from the room, the three inseparables outraged at the verdict, while Athos felt numb at the thought that he was facing the loss of another brother the following day. Aramis quieted as he noticed the look on the boy’s face, his expression turning from anger to concern as he noted the remoteness and lack of awareness, his lips moving but no sound coming forth. “There’s something wrong with d’Artagnan,” he spoke urgently to his friends, redoubling his efforts to get to the young man. But the people surrounding them, coupled with the guards that hurried their prisoner forward, made it impossible to reach him and they arrived outside just in time to see d’Artagnan close his eyes and fall limp against the back of the cart.

 

“What’s wrong with him, Aramis?” Athos turned on the medic worriedly.

 

Aramis shrugged, wanting to reassure his friend, but able only to speculate about what they’d observed. “I’d guess that he’s overwhelmed at all that’s happened. The trial, combined with his lack of proper food and rest, as well as the mistreatment he’s endured in recent days has likely caught up with him.” While he didn’t feel confident, he infused as much sincerity into his tone as he was able as he said, “I believe he’s only passed out and will be fine when he wakes.”

 

Athos nodded uncertainly, Porthos still staring worriedly at the retreating cart. “We can’t let them hang the boy.”

 

A voice from behind echoed his sentiment as the Captain joined them, “No, we can’t. The King has given d’Artagnan an additional day before his sentence is carried out. That’s all the time we have to find the real killer so let’s not waste it. You have a plan?”

 

The men naturally turned to look at Athos, the man well-known for his strategic mind, but the older Musketeer was sadly shaking his head, his tone defeated. “There is nothing. It does not matter how many days the King allows; we cannot make evidence appear from thin air and there is nothing more than there was before.”

 

Treville moved forward, placing a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder, “Athos, I know what d’Artagnan means to you.” He looked at the other two men, noting their shared looks of concern, “to all of you, but now is not the time to begin grieving for a man who still lives. d’Artagnan is alive and if you want to keep him that way, you’ll shake off this melancholy and find a way to prove his innocence. Now, what is your plan?”

 

If Athos was shocked by the man’s words, he gave no indication of it, but his eyes seemed to clear and his back straightened with renewed determination. The other three stood quietly, waiting for him to speak, as he scanned the crowds around him, his eyes falling on the countenance of Madame Bonacieux who was currently weaving her way through the throng of people toward them. “I believe Madame Bonacieux wishes to speak with us,” he stated, moments before she arrived in their midst.

 

“Athos, tell me you have a plan that won’t have d’Artagnan hung for a murder he didn’t commit,” the woman beseeched him, forgoing any attempt at politeness by jumping directly to the point.

 

“We were just discussing it, Madame,” Aramis tipped his hat to her as he spoke.

 

Moving their group off to one side where their conversation might be a little more private, Athos concurred, “Aramis is correct, Madame. If you’ll excuse us?”

 

Constance reached forward with one hand, catching Athos’ arm before he could move away, “This was Rochefort’s doing, wasn’t it?”

 

Porthos raised a questioning eyebrow as he asked, “What do you know of Rochefort?”

 

Bonacieux snorted in a most unladylike way, bringing a smile to Aramis’ face at the familiar response, which was undoubtedly part of the woman’s charm. “That man’s a snake. He does everything he can to ingratiate himself to the King and Queen, all the while poisoning them against the Musketeers.”

 

“Madame, is there anything that Rochefort’s said or done that could help us prove d’Artagnan’s innocence?” the Captain questioned, leaning in closer as he lowered his voice.

 

Constance seemed surprised by the question at first, but then she stopped to think, racking her brain for anything that might be useful to the Musketeers. “I don’t know,” she stammered. “I mean, he’s never said anything that would implicate him in the Ambassador’s death.” She seemed at a loss as she said, “I just don’t trust him, is all.”

 

“Why not?” Aramis pressed, “What has he done to make you mistrust him?”’

 

Again, Constance seemed uncertain about the question, but decided she could trust the men with her observations. “He convinced the Queen to write to her brother when the King was missing,” she confessed. “I tried to counsel her against it; I knew d’Artagnan would bring him back safely, but she wouldn’t believe me. Rochefort took the letter and delivered it to the Spanish Ambassador.”

 

Athos looked up sharply at Bonacieux’s words, silently communicating with the men around him. “Madame Bonacieux,” Treville spoke, “is it possible for you to keep this information to yourself and to ensure that you’re never alone with the Comte until this has been sorted?”

 

Constance drew back from the men as she considered the Captain’s words, “You think I’m in some sort of danger?”

 

“It’s possible,” Aramis acquiesced, knowing well that Rochefort was a brutal man and a survivor who wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate someone he perceived as a threat.

 

“Look, d’Artagnan wouldn’t forgive us if somethin’ happened to you, so for his sake, can you take extra care for the next few days?” Porthos requested, knowing that the woman was more likely to be cautious for the Gascon’s sake rather than her own. He was rewarded with a shaky nod as Constance agreed, Porthos grinning at her response.

 

Looking around, the group realized that most everyone else had departed, leaving them nearly alone in the deserted square. Athos looked to Aramis as he asked, “Will you please escort Madame Bonacieux back to the palace?”

 

Aramis dipped his head as he questioned, “And where will you be?”

 

“I believe Porthos and I have someone to see in the Court.“ Turning to the Captain, he said, “We’ll report at the garrison afterwards.” Treville tipped his head in acknowledgement and the group dispersed, bolstered by the possibility that they finally had the thread of a lead that could save their friend’s life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Run, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied, his voice hoarse and low. “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments and kudos on the last chapter and for sharing your reactions with me. A bit more angst ahead before we catch up to the prologue. Enjoy!

d’Artagnan had drifted in and out during the day, partly as his body dealt with the shock of having been sentenced to death, and partly out of boredom. The guards thankfully left him alone, apparently satisfied that he would be dead soon enough, and the first person he saw was a man bringing him his evening meal along with fresh water. He drank deeply, slaking his thirst, but eyed the food warily, remembering well the previous offerings. Startling as he realized that he hadn’t eaten since he’d been arrested, the Gascon forced himself to consume a small amount of the food, closing his eyes and swallowing quickly after each bite, and washing away the flavour with more water. In this fashion, he managed to clear half the plate, pushing the rest away from him when his stomach lurched in protest.

 

That night, he endured a broken sleep, his mind occupied by thoughts of his pending execution, which roused him from his fitful rest and left him trembling after the occasional nightmare. He was grateful when a guard came by with more water and food, signalling the start of his second day. Soon after, a priest arrived, and he sat at the far end of the cell as the man was shown inside, before the door was closed behind them, the guard staying on duty outside.

 

“I’ve come to absolve you of your sins, my son. Confess and all with be forgiven,” the priest counselled.

 

“Father, I have nothing to confess but I do have a request,” d’Artagnan countered, watching the man’s face closely to see how his words would be received.

 

“Surely that can’t the case. You’re to hang tomorrow for a man’s death; you must seek absolution for his murder,” the priest pressed.

 

“I know you won’t believe me, but I didn’t kill that man. I’m ready to face my death tomorrow, but I’d like to say good-bye to my friends. Is there any way you can petition the Governor to allow my fellow Musketeers inside for a few minutes?” d’Artagnan had often been accused of using his youthful and innocent face to get his way and, in this moment, he plastered his most sincere expression onto his face, praying that the man could be swayed to help him.

 

Nearly a minute passed in silence as the priest observed him, finally reaching his decision and nodding. “I will see what I can do, but I make no promises.”

 

“Thank you,” the Gascon hurriedly whispered, grateful that the man was at least willing to try.

 

As he turned to leave, the priest paused once more, “Are you certain you have nothing to confess?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, “Nothing. I did not kill that man and if I hang tomorrow, it will be to prevent a war.”

 

It was not the priest’s place to judge the man, but he couldn’t help but be swayed by the earnestness of the young man’s words and he found it difficult to believe that the Gascon might be lying to him. With a last nod, the man left, leaving d’Artagnan once more alone with his thoughts, facing untold hours alone, during which time he may or may not receive a last visit from his friends. Returning to his spot, he slid down the wall to the ground, no longer even aware of the filth that surrounded him, the state of his leathers of little consequence when faced with his own mortality. He’d spoken the truth to the priest; he had nothing weighing on his conscience and was comforted by the knowledge that his death would at the very least avert and long and bloody war with Spain. Others might see it as a poor excuse to lose one’s life, but d’Artagnan had willingly entered the King’s service and had known, without a doubt, that he would one day forfeit his life for the Crown.

 

He wondered what his father would say, if he’d still been alive, and whether he would consider d’Artagnan’s death a noble one. He would be outraged, just as his friends were, but once the mantle of grief had passed, allowing rationale thought to once more prevail, would he have found comfort in the fact that his son’s death saved the lives of so many others? And what of Constance? She was still a married woman and had decided to remain faithful to her vows, but d’Artagnan was certain she held feelings for him, just as he did for her. She would have no cause to grieve, no _right_ in the eyes of those around her, but was it possible that, when no one was watching, she would shed some quiet tears for him and for the love that could never be between them? Sighing, he scrubbed a hand through his hair, the tedium of waiting and wallowing loathsome to him, but his captivity leaving him no other choice. Normally, he would engage in sparring and go for a horseback ride, but within the walls of the Chatelet, those options were denied him and that, he decided, was the worst part – having no control over his own destiny. Pushing against the wall with a hand, deciding that he could no longer sit still, he stood and began to pace around the cell, counting the paces as he went. The space was a small one, but the movement brought some semblance of peace and, as his body moved, his mind quieted and he allowed it to drift ungoverned as the physical motion soothed him. 

* * *

Hours later he still paced, his steps slowed considerably from their initial intensity, but he hadn’t stopped, deciding that, if nothing else, his active day might allow him a small chance of rest during the night before he’d be hung. He’d held out hope that his friends might appear, but as the day wore on, he remained alone, and he no longer expected anyone to appear. When the door to his cell opened, he didn’t even look up or stop his motion, expecting that the jailor would leave his food and depart again. When he didn’t hear the cell door immediately close, he stopped and looked up from where he’d been staring at the point where the wall and ground met. Grinning, he exhaled, his heart filling as he drank in the sight of his friends. “Athos,” he stepped forward to grip the man’s arm, moving next to Aramis and finally Porthos, needing the touch to ground him and assure himself of their presence. “I didn’t think you’d come.” His friends’ faces immediately dropped and he hastened to correct himself, “No, I mean, I wasn’t sure you’d be allowed to come. I’m glad you’re here.” 

 

“There’s nothin’ that could ‘ave kept us away, lad,” Porthos assured him, the warm, deep tones of the man’s voice washing over d’Artagnan.

 

The Gascon grinned at the man’s words, flushing slightly with embarrassment at the sentiment they conveyed. Not wanting the moment to end, but needing to know so he could prepare, he cleared his throat and asked, “Did you have any luck? Finding the killer, I mean…” he trailed off, watching his friends’ expressions shift as the remorse of their failure appeared on their faces. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I know you did everything you could and I don’t want you to feel guilty,” he rushed to assure them.

 

Athos’ expression seemed to shutter even further and he looked away, d’Artagnan looking helplessly at the other two for guidance. It was Aramis who stepped forward, gripping his bicep tightly, “It is not _fine_ , d’Artagnan, and it will be our greatest failure if you hang tomorrow.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a short nod, not having the words to be able to dissuade his friends and deciding that he didn’t want to waste their last minutes together arguing. “I’m sorry, lad,” Porthos spoke contritely, “Flea turned over every stone but the boy’s just disappeared. We couldn’t find ‘im anywhere.”

 

Aramis drew a breath, “Yes, and whoever our killer is, they’ve hidden their tracks well. The Captain received permission to search the Ambassador’s rooms but anything of consequence has already been removed. We think Rochefort behind this, but again, we’ve no evidence to implicate him.”

 

The Gascon swallowed, once more determined that these men would not carry guilt on top of grief and he dredged up a smile for the man, “I know you’ve done everything in your power, Aramis.” He glanced at the other two, “you all have. I know its little consolation, but please know that I don’t blame you for any of this and I’m content to know that my death will prevent a war with Spain.”

 

Athos’ seemed to blanch even further at the young man’s words and d’Artagnan moved a step closer, placing a tentative hand on his mentor’s shoulder. He was surprised to be drawn into a strong embrace, Athos clinging to him as though his life depended on it, and perhaps it did. This man had lost so much, been betrayed by those he’d loved the most, and it was only the brotherhood he’d found in the regiment that had saved him. Now, he faced another devastating loss and d’Artagnan feared his death might be the one that destroyed his best friend, the man he loved more dearly than any brother. He returned the embrace, finding it odd that he would be the one offering comfort, but willing to hold the man for as long as it took for the minor tremors he felt to abate, and for Athos to be able to pull himself together. The stood that way for over a minute until Athos stiffened slightly and began to pull away. d’Artagnan let him, waiting for the man to face him so he could confirm that his friend wouldn’t fall apart. When their eyes met, the Gascon saw the deep anguish and pain still reflected there, but there was also a glint of the strength that d’Artagnan had always associated with the man and, while Athos was not alright, he was comfortable at least that with the help of his brothers, he would not recklessly go in search of a quick death as soon as d’Artagnan was gone. It was not much, but it was enough.

 

Clearing his throat again, he said, “I know you can’t stay for long so I need you to promise me that you won’t let this tear you apart.” His friends looked ready to interrupt him and he shook his head, averting his eyes for a moment as he refused to acknowledge their desire to speak. “No, I know you well enough to know how you’ll react and I know what I’d do if you were in my place. Do not let Rochefort have the finally victory by letting this destroy you. You must promise me.” He face was fiercely determined as he met each man’s eyes, “I cannot face my death with peace if you do not promise that you’ll survive this.”

 

His words were met with silence and d’Artagnan could see each man warring against the desire to deny him, to offer meaningless platitudes that everything would be alright and to hang tightly to the last remaining shreds of hope that the situation could still have a positive outcome. He knew what he was asking them to do – to deny hope and come to terms with his death. It was a cruel request but necessary and he had spoken truthfully when he’d said that he needed that small bit of comfort from them in order to face the hangman’s noose. It was Porthos would broke the stalemate first, his shoulders slumping, making him appear half the man he normally was as he gave a solemn nod. Aramis followed suit, his eyes welling with moisture as he tried offer a tremulous smile, failing after a few seconds and causing him to look away. The Gascon turned his gaze to Athos and he knew without a doubt that his mentor would be the most difficult of them all to convince, but he was also the one among them who received the greatest amount of d’Artagnan’s concern and, as a result, it was Athos’ promise that he needed the most. As if sensing the boy’s need, Athos gave a sharp nod, the young man seeing how much it had cost him but knowing without a doubt that the man would not break his promise and do as he’d asked. “Thank you,” d’Artagnan breathed out, suddenly feeling lighter with the knowledge that his friends would live on.

 

A loud voice from outside startled them, “Time’s up!”

 

The men were unwilling to separate and d’Artagnan was certain that, if they’d been able, the three would have stayed at his side throughout his final night. Not willing to see his friends in trouble he stepped forward and embraced each man in turn, surprised when Athos whispered softly in his ear, “This is not the end.” Without a backward glance, the older man followed the other two out of the cell and the door was promptly closed behind him. Satisfied that he now had no regrets, d’Artagnan returned to his spot and settled down to get some sleep before he was taken to the gallows in the morning.

* * *

He was startled awake when his cell door opened. He’d fallen asleep, comfortable in the knowledge that he’d said good-bye to his friends and had not expected anyone else to return, the jailor having been by earlier with his evening meal. As a result, he was groggy and slow to awake, his body heavy with the sleep he’d denied it over the previous days since his arrest. The men were upon him quickly, dragging him upright and holding him by his arms, while a third pummeled his side mercilessly. The only kindness was that it was over quickly, the men dropping him amidst their raucous laughter, exiting as suddenly as they’d arrived. d’Artagnan laid on the ground where he’d fallen, doing his best to slow his breaths as his left hand came up to rest against his aching ribs, bracing them against the rapid breaths that were expanding his ribcage further and more often than was comfortable. When he’d steadied his breathing, his rolled up to a sitting position, scooting backwards toward the wall as he cursed the fact that the guards had decided on one last act of vengeance against him, despite the fact that he was sentenced to die in the morning. There was no way that he would be able to sleep now, and he groaned at the thought of the long hours that awaited him.

 

When the door to his space began to open again, d’Artagnan tensed, a hand moving once more to his ribs as the contraction of the muscles there pushed painfully on his sore ribcage. The face that appeared, however, was not that of a guard; instead, Porthos grinned at him maniacally as he gestured toward the open door, “Ready to get out of here?”

 

d’Artagnan pushed to his feet, wincing with the movement, and he saw the grin on Porthos’ face slip as he caught the look of pain. The Gascon waved his concern away with a hand, moving closer as he asked, “What are you doing here?”

 

Porthos looked at him with a gleam in his eye, “Isn’t it obvious? This is a jailbreak.”

 

The Gascon caught his arm as the large man looked behind him into the corridor, confirming that they were still alone. “Porthos, you can’t do this. If we’re caught, you’ll be hung alongside me.”

 

Porthos turned back to the young man as he said, “Then we’d best make sure we don’t get caught. Now, come on, the others are waitin’.” With that, he turned to look once more around the corridor and then pulled the young man out by his arm as he led the way.

 

His ribs creaked and ached in a most discomfiting way, but there was no time to think about that now. There was precious little time for him to make his escape so he clamped his jaw down more tightly against the sounds of pain that threatened to alert the guards to their position, resolutely following Porthos as they navigated the confusing labyrinth of tunnels. The larger man was as good as his word and minutes later he’d unerringly led them outside where d’Artagnan got his first breath of fresh air after several long days of captivity. The moon was high in the sky and cast deep shadows around the courtyard, further aiding them in their efforts to remain hidden from prying eyes. They kept to the outside walls where the darkness was deepest, d’Artagnan’s breaths coming now in labored pants as he struggled to keep up with the Musketeer in front of him who seemed to effortlessly blend and prowl through the blackness with a speed and agility the Gascon currently envied.

 

When at last they slipped through a small gate, Porthos turned and barricaded it firmly behind them, grasping the young man’s upper arm as he chivvied them forward, first along the outside walls and then making a dash for the forested area, almost pulling a cry of pain from the Gascon’s lips as his fragile ribcage was jostled with every step. Porthos continued to pull him forward another 100 meters beyond the treeline, where they finally stopped, d’Artagnan leaning over his knees as much as his ribs allowed as he caught his breath. Once he felt like his heart was no longer about to beat a path out of his chest, he looked up into the faces of his friends, Aramis’ with a welcoming grin on his face and Athos’, a sterner expression born of worry. The latter man stepped forward and the other two naturally drew back a step, allowing them a moment of privacy. With a hand on the young man’s shoulder, Athos peered at him in the dim light and asked, “Are you alright?”

 

The intensity of the man’s gaze almost had d’Artagnan turning away, but he forced himself to stand firm as he replied, “I’m fine, Athos.”

 

Athos glanced at Porthos who stepped forward once more as he pointed to the young man’s left side. “Ribs, not sure if they’re broken or just badly bruised.”

 

Athos gave a short nod, returning a pointed look to the Gascon who rolled his eyes at Porthos’ betrayal, “They’re fine, Athos, just bruised, I think. It’s all been just bruises. Apparently they’re too worried about saving me for the hangman to do anything more.”

 

Athos stared at him for several seconds more, seemingly to discern the truth of the young man’s words before he looked away, dropping his head to his chest for a moment as he drew a steadying breath. When he looked up, the soldier had reasserted himself and d’Artagnan found himself instinctively straightening his shoulders. “Aramis, if you please,” Athos asked, his words clipped and precise, and the medic stepped forward. With an apologetic smile, he reached for the Gascon’s shirt and with a last glance at the boy’s face to confirm he had permission to proceed, pulled the hem of the shirt upwards to expose his bruised ribcage. As Aramis expertly pressed on d’Artagnan’s ribs, Athos was busy speaking, “We’ve a horse ready for you and you’ll find provisions in the saddlebags. There’s a map as well and a letter from the Captain which you’ll present to Madame Trémaux. Keep to the back roads and don’t risk a fire. We’ll send word once we’ve cleared your name.”

 

d’Artagnan grimaced and then gasped as Aramis’ fingers found a particularly sore spot, and he reached for the medic’s hand, pulling it away from his flank. “Sorry,” Aramis mumbled, stepping away and nodding to Athos – nothing was broken, although the medic was fairly certain that one or more of the ribs might be cracked.

 

The Gascon turned his glare on the older Musketeer, “I’m not running!”

 

The three men traded looks, communicating silently about the young man’s stubbornness and prideful nature, having feared exactly this reaction. “Lad, there’s nothing else to be done. If you stay, they’ll hang you before we can clear you. We’ll find the evidence but you need to buy us some time,” Porthos pleaded.

 

“Porthos is right, d’Artagnan,” Aramis agreed, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “There is no shame in fleeing so that we may prove your innocence. The real crime would be allowing you to hang for something you didn’t do.”

 

d’Artagnan was clearly torn, looking from one man to the next, eyes finally landing on his mentor. “Athos?” he asked, his voice thin and needy.

 

“Run, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied, his voice hoarse and low. “Please.”

 

The young man swallowed thickly at the anguish in the older man’s face; his mentor was begging him to leave and d’Artagnan found that he could not resist his request. He gave a shaky nod in reply, Porthos clapping him on the back as soon as he’d agreed. He followed them a few feet away where a nervous mount stood waiting for him and he looked at his friends once more, drinking in their faces as though a man lost in the desert. Porthos grasped him firmly in both arms, giving him a slightly gentler version of his bone-jarring hug in deference to his ribs. “Stay safe,” he whispered into the embrace.

 

Aramis was next, pulling him in close and simply holding him for several seconds before pushing him away, still holding onto the Gascon’s arms as he said, “Protect those ribs.” Last came Athos, a man who seldom sought human contact but who was now gripping the young man fiercely, pulling d’Artagnan’s head forward with a hand so it rested in the crook of his neck. Turning his head, he breathed out a quiet plea, “Stay alive.” d’Artagnan nodded and Athos held him for a few moments longer, obviously as unwilling as the boy to part. When they finally did, the Gascon took a last look at his friends as he spoke, “Thank you.” With that, he pulled himself onto the mount and wheeled it around, the three men moving away to give him room. Without a backward glance, he kicked the horse into motion, making his way out of the woods and on his way to being a fugitive.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos couldn’t help himself as he questioned dryly, “Do you mean to say that you’ve misplaced your prisoner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the comments on the last chapter and for sharing your thoughts about the parts you enjoyed. Continued thanks also to tinadp for ensuring that what I've written is making sense. Hope you like this next chapter!

The three men rode silently back to the heart of Paris, dismounting just outside the garrison walls and then leading their mounts through the gates and into the stables. They dealt with their own tack, doing their best not to draw anyone’s attention as they’d agreed. Outside, in the courtyard, all of the men who remained at the garrison were drinking and engaged in conversation, Treville having organized an evening of wine and camaraderie in celebration of the Gascon’s life; at least, that’s what everyone would say if they were asked. In truth, the Captain had organized the event as an alibi for the inseparables, the three merging seamlessly into the throng of carousing men as they lifted their wine glasses in a silent toast to the young man who they’d freed that night. The garrison would be the first place Rochefort would look in the morning for his missing prisoner and, upon finding him absent, would seek next to identify those who had aided the boy. Every man in the garrison would claim that the three inseparables had been present during the evening’s festivities, drinking more than most due to the strength of their bond with the condemned Musketeer; this last part, at least, would be true.

 

As they emptied their glasses, Porthos swiped a nearby bottle and tipped its contents into the empty vessels, Athos especially craving the relief that the thick wine offered. He was well aware that theirs was a shallow victory, having won the battle but with a hard war still facing them. The Gascon would not be able to stay hidden for long and, eventually, if they were unable to clear his name, the young man would have to leave France and seek his fortunes elsewhere. That was not an outcome that any of them were willing to accept and, despite aching heads and roiling bellies, he knew that they would resume their search for answers the following day. As Athos tipped his head back to drink, he caught sight of Treville watching him from above, hands resting on the railing that ran along the balcony. Bringing his glass down, but maintaining eye contact, he gave a minor nod of his head, confirming that their nighttime outing had ended in success.

 

Treville raised his own glass in salute and then turned and walked away, leaving the men to their drinking but wanting a clear head as he steeled himself for the coming storm, which he knew could not be avoided. Closing the door behind him, the Captain leaned back against it, weary from the almost constant stress they’d been living with since d’Artagnan’s initial disappearance. He was grateful now that he’d had the foresight to make alternate arrangements if the boy was found guilty, but knew he and the others would pay the ultimate price if their complicity was discovered. It was a temporary measure, nothing more, and would buy them a week’s time, at best. If they couldn’t find the real killer by then, the boy would be lost to them forever and he wondered if he’d lose three more men in the bargain; they were called the inseparables for a reason, after all. Stepping forward, he placed his empty glass on his desk and raked an eye over the paperwork that awaited his attention. Allowing a disgusted look to cross his face, he strode determinedly away from it and to his back room where his bed stood. Tonight he would rest and prepare himself for the confrontation with Rochefort; the paperwork would still be waiting for him once he was ready to refocus on the responsibilities of leading the regiment. 

* * *

He travelled for several hours by the light of the moon, recognizing that it would be safer for him to ride during the night and hide somewhere out of sight during the light of the day. He’d stopped to consult the map twice since he’d left his friends behind, and was confident that his path was taking him in the right direction. He had no idea to whose home he travelled, but trusted that his brothers would not lead him astray, especially after risking so much by helping him escape. Now that the adrenaline had worn off and his aches and pains had returned, making it uncomfortable to sit a horse even while walking, his mind started to turn to all the questions that he wished he’d asked before departing. Where was he going? How long was he expected to wait? What would happen if the true killer could not be found? There were too many uncertainties and the plan to free him felt a little too hastily contrived for his liking, despite his gratefulness to his brothers for saving him from the noose.

 

When he grew weary of riding and was in danger of falling from his horse, he found a copse of trees and wove his way through the foliage until he found a large pine with a comfortable-looking hollow at its base. Dismounting, he guided the horse to one side, and once it had been tended, pulled his cloak tighter around himself against the chilly of the pre-dawn, grateful again at his friends’ foresight in packing it for him. He momentarily considered having something to eat, but his fatigue outweighed his desire for food and, in the end, he had a quick drink from his water skin before settling against the tree he’d found, falling asleep within seconds.

 

It was daytime when he awoke, but based on the height of the sun above him, it was not yet past noon. He was stiff from the previous night’s beating and the hours he’d spent on the cool ground, and it took him a few minutes before he could move around without his aches demanding all of his attention. After taking care of his morning needs, he ate a quick meal and then took his horse’s reins in hand, walking the animal forward and back out of the trees where he’d hidden. At the edge of the copse, he looked around and determined the immediate area to be just as deserted as it had been the night prior. He knew that the roads he’d chosen were not usually well-traveled but reasoned that the closer he got to his destination, the greater the chance of running into someone.

 

He began walking, staying within viewing distance of the hard-packed path, but off to one side so he would have ample opportunity to avoid anyone in the area. An hour later, he came across a small stream and he allowed the horse to drink its fill, taking the opportunity to wash up and refill his water skin. From there, he mounted again, still keeping his mount to a walk in deference to his still sore ribs. He knew that it would take him longer to reach is destination in this fashion, but was content to keep moving, albeit slowly, reasoning that his pace would have him arriving after sunset and that he was safer on the move rather than taking the risk of stopping to hide somewhere he could be discovered.

 

His day was blessedly uneventful and he didn’t run into anyone else as he’d journeyed. It was now dusk and, believing he was close to his destination, d’Artagnan’s gaze travelled back and forth continuously, doubly alert to his surroundings. As he’d been instructed in the written directions, he guided his horse off the path and approached the house he’d been directed to from behind, finding a small gatehouse that had been identified on his map. As he approached, he was surprised to see a man shift from the shadows to stand in front of him, waiting by the glow of a lantern and incredibly unsurprised to see him approach. Steeling himself, he continued, keeping his horse’s pace steady as he drew closer. When he was within five feet of the man he stopped, waiting to see what the reaction would be. The man ahead of him merely stepped forward to close the gap between them, already reaching for the reins. “Good evening. You can dismount now if you’d like and I’ll take care of your horse after I’ve seen you up to the house.”

 

The man’s tone was neutral, containing not even a hint of malice, so d’Artagnan did as the man had suggested, slipping carefully from his saddle and placing the reins in the man’s outstretched hand. The man motioned with his head toward the saddlebags, “Do you want to bring those with you now or should I bring them in afterwards?” The Gascon kept a wary eye on the man as he wordlessly detached the bags and slung them over one shoulder. As they walked, the man continued to speak, “I’m Gilles, by the way. Madame is expecting you. We weren’t sure exactly what time you’d arrive but I’m glad it’s not any later,” he said with a grin in the young man’s direction, “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a noncommittal nod as the man led them closer to the estate, tying his horse to a post outside the stables with a promise to return afterwards, and then making his way toward the main house. They approached from the side, d’Artagnan able to make out a door ahead of them and Gilles eased it open, allowing d’Artagnan to enter. He stepped over the threshold warily, looking around for any sign of a welcoming party, but the space was empty. He took a couple more steps away from the door, allowing enough room for Gilles to follow him inside and then once more take the lead as they wove their way through the kitchen and then finally up a set of stairs which opened onto another doorway. Once they’d passed through, d’Artagnan noticed how the furnishings around them changed, the fine tapestries and furniture reminiscent of the royal palace.

 

Gilles led the way into a sitting room where the fireplace burned lowly, dispersing any of the early evening’s chill. As he moved further into the room, he was startled as Gilles exited, pulling the double doors closed behind him, and d’Artagnan turned slowly in place in an effort to determine if he was alone. As his eyes returned to the fireplace centred against the longest wall, he saw movement from one of the two chairs positioned there. A woman rose and walked around the chair, having been hidden from view by its high back. She approached cautiously as though sensing d’Artagnan’s uncertainly, his behaviour more akin to a skittish foal rather than an experienced solider. “d’Artagnan?” she asked softly, waiting for his nod of confirmation which he guardedly offered. A smile graced her face, “Oh, I am glad you’ve made it here safely. I am Madame Trémaux and you are welcome in my home.”

 

d’Artagnan knew he should reply so he gave another small nod, “My pleasure, Madame.”

 

As he fell silent, realization dawned on the woman standing in front of him, “You don’t know who I am.” At the Gascon’s head shake, she continued, “I am Captain Treville’s sister. He wrote to me requesting sanctuary for you.”

 

d’Artagnan was stunned by the revelation that he was in the home of the sister to his commanding officer. He knew that his friends would send him somewhere safe, but Treville’s involvement was completely unexpected. “Why?” he uttered as he thought out loud.

 

“Why? Because you are one of his men and Jean-Armand loves his men – he would do anything in his power to protect them,” the lady explained, still seeing disbelief in the young man’s face.

 

d’Artagnan eyes widened at hearing his Captain referred to so casually, but remembered that this woman was his family; to him, Treville was her brother not the commander of the Musketeer regiment. “Perhaps I should go. I cannot put the Captain’s family at risk,” d’Artagnan stated, his mind already considering the other possible locations where he might hide himself.

 

Trémaux gave him a disbelieving look as she stepped forward to grasp his forearm, leading him out of the room and toward the grand staircase in the foyer, “Nonsense. Jean-Armand sent you here because you need help and it is help you shall receive.” Still pulling him along with one hand, her other held her skirts as they ascended the stairs to the next level. “I’ve had a room prepared for you and there’s food and wine as well.” She glanced over at him as they walked down the hallway, “Nothing warm, mind, as I wasn’t sure when you’d be arriving but I’m certain you must be famished. There’s water as well and I can arrange for a hot bath tomorrow, but the staff have retired for tonight.” She stopped and pushed open a door, guiding the man inside before stopping abruptly a few steps into the room as she asked, “Are you listening to me?” The look on her face was almost quizzical and d’Artagnan realized with a start that he’d been quiet for too long, having been overwhelmed by everything that had transpired since he’d arrived.

 

Swallowing, he dredged up a small smile as he responded, “My apologies, Madame. I am grateful for everything you’ve done. It’s been a long ride and I fear my weariness has stolen my manners.”

 

The woman seemed satisfied as she smiled in return, pulling him forward once more to show him around the room, encouraging him to drop his saddlebags on a side table. “Is there anything else you require?” she asked as she took a last look around the room, confirming that everything was as she’d intended.

 

With another smile, d’Artagnan shook his head, “No, Madame, just some discretion. There may be those who will be looking for me and it could place you in danger if others know of my presence.”

 

With a hand once more on the Gascon’s arm, Trémaux reassured him, “Don’t worry, d’Artagnan. I am the only one here who knows your real name. Gilles was told that you are a cousin, here to help with the training of the horses, and my husband will be away for at least two more weeks. I promise you are safe here.”

 

The sincerity and compassion in her eyes momentarily brought a lump of emotion to the young man’s throat and he nodded, unable to speak. The woman squeezed his forearm in understanding before removing her hand, moving toward the door as she threw back over her shoulder, “Sleep as long as you’d like and then ring the bell when you’d like a bath drawn. I’ll find you when you come downstairs and we can talk more over breakfast.”

 

With that she was gone and d’Artagnan stood staring at the closed door, left with the impression of a minor whirlwind who was, apparently, the Captain’s sister. With a deep breath, he looked around the room, grateful that after his days in the Chatelet he would now get to enjoy the comforts of a well-stuffed mattress, clean linen and proper food, if only for a few days. He still had no idea how long he was expected to stay, but supposed that his hostess might reveal answers to some of his questions in the morning. As he looked at the food that had been prepared, his stomach growled and he sank into the chair next to the table, helping himself to a piece of hard cheese. If nothing else, his time here would allow him to rest and regain his strength, preparing him for whatever his future might hold. 

* * *

Despite the previous night’s drinking, the Musketeers were awake and dressed early, waiting at the garrison with saddled horses when Treville exited his office and made his way down to the courtyard. The four men were among many who would be making the trip to the gallows that morning in support of their condemned brother. They had just mounted when the thunder of approaching hoof beats reached their ears, and they sat patiently, waiting, for the riders to appear. As they’d expected, it was Rochefort and a number of Red Guards, the Comte dismounting as soon as he’d pulled his horse to a halt and striding over to stand in front of Treville. The Captain looked down at the man from his horse, affixing an expression of impatience. “What do you want, Rochefort? We were just about to depart for the gallows.”  

 

The Comte sneered up at him, clearly unimpressed with the Captain’s use of his last name and the fact that he’d remained on his horse, forcing the other man to look up at him. “Where is d’Artagnan?” he demanded. At the look of confusion on Treville’s face, he continued, “He’s gone missing from the Chatelet.”

 

Athos couldn’t help himself as he questioned dryly, “Do you mean to say that you’ve misplaced your prisoner?”

 

Much to the Musketeers’ satisfaction, the Comte sputtered indignantly before he rallied, “We did not misplace anyone. He’s escaped! Now, where are you hiding him?”

 

Treville answered calmly, “d’Artagnan is not here. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to see for yourself.”

 

As expected, the Comte wanted to do exactly that and he motioned to his guards, giving them their orders regarding the search of the garrison. As he did so, the Captain turned back to the assembled Musketeers. “Men, these guards are here to search for d’Artagnan. They are not to be thwarted in any way. Take your horses back to the stable and see to your other duties. There will be no hanging today.” With his last words, a hint of a smile appeared and he hastened to hide it, lest Rochefort or his men notice. The four men dismounted, other Musketeers coming forward to take their horses, the men nodding gratefully to them for allowing them to keep watch over the Red Guards’ activities. Treville motioned toward the balcony and they followed him upstairs, leaning against the railing as they watched the proceedings down below.

 

“This won’t be the end of it,” Athos stated as his eyes followed the men’s search.

 

“I know,” Treville replied, arms braced on the railing. “They may have their suspicions but they won’t find any proof, and eventually they’ll have to give up and leave. Once they’re gone, you’ll be able to continue your investigation.”

 

The four continued to watch as the Red Guards scurried around like ants, the Musketeers not blocking their efforts, but not allowing Rochefort’s men to do just anything either, the odd push or hard stare from the King’s guard stopping the searching men in their tracks when they got overly aggressive. The garrison was comfortable enough for the regiment, but was not overly large, and in under an hour Treville had Rochefort seething in his office, demanding again to be told d’Artagnan’s whereabouts. Although not formally invited, the three inseparables had followed them in and were now standing around the outside of the room as the Comte ranted. Taking a calming breath, Treville repeated his earlier declaration, “Rochefort, I told you that d’Artagnan isn’t here. If he’s managed to escape, he’s probably half-way to the border by now.”

 

The Comte straightened from where he’d been leaning on the Captain’s desk in an effort to intimidate the man, turning to look at the others instead. “What do you three know of d’Artagnan’s whereabouts?”

 

They held Rochefort’s gaze as it stopped on each man in turn, Aramis and Porthos simply shaking their heads to indicate their lack of knowledge, while Athos replied, “Rochefort, we’ve already answered you. No Musketeer in the regiment can tell you d’Artagnan’s location and we can’t be held accountable for your inability to keep him locked up.”

 

The Comte was clearly incensed at the Musketeer’s word but managed to keep himself in check as he turned back to face Treville, “You haven’t heard the last of this. I will find him, and if I discover that you had anything to do with d’Artagnan’s escape, I’ll make sure you hang next to him.” He stormed from the room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

 

Porthos let out a long breath before he spoke, “I really don’t like that man.”

 

Aramis grinned at his friend’s comment, slapping him on the back, “You have a penchant for understatement, Porthos. That man is the devil himself.”

 

Treville ignored their banter as he held Athos’ gaze, “Wait at least an hour before you head out and watch yourselves. He’ll be more dangerous than ever now that he’s been embarrassed.” The older Musketeer gave a nod of understanding as he led the way out. When the door had closed, Treville’s head sank forward into his hands as he rubbed at his temples in an effort to ease the headache that had taken up residence there.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he’d lain back, his puzzlement remained. “Who are you?” he breathed out, eyes still doing their best to focus on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the lovely comments on the last chapter and for letting me know you enjoyed the addition of Treville's sister. More trouble for d'Artagnan ahead - enjoy!

It was his fourth day at the Trémaux estate, and for short moments when d’Artagnan could forget he was a wanted man, he actually found himself enjoying his time there. As Treville’s sister had told him on his first night, he would be helping with the horses, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the quality of steeds that would be under his care. Madame Trémaux’s husband was a supplier to some of the best families in France and had even provided a number of the horses that were found in the royal stables. This meant that d’Artagnan had access to some of the finest steeds in the country and the farm boy in him revelled at the opportunity to train them. His first day had been spent with Gilles who seemed to be involved in just about every aspect of running the estate. After a morning together, Gilles had recognized the skill in the Gascon’s hands and had distanced himself, allowing the young man to work his magic with a particularly spirited mare. After that, he was allowed to work alone, Madame Trémaux and Gilles occasionally passing by to have a look, but for the most part leaving him be. The opportunity to spend time with the horses soothed d’Artagnan’s mind and spirit in a way that nothing short of his brothers’ presence could, and he reminded himself that he would need to thank the Captain at some point, not only for making the request of his sister, but for giving him a place where he could find some semblance of calm.

 

As he'd hoped, Madame Trémaux had provided answers to some of his questions, explaining that her brother would write with news within the week, and it would be at that point that a decision would be made regarding his future; until then, he was Denys, the lady’s cousin. It was a short enough period of time, but d’Artagnan understood the risks of staying in one place too long and, the longer his brothers searched for evidence, the greater the chance that it would no longer be found. No matter how much he tried, he could not stop his brain from rehashing the events that had led to his current predicament, wondering if different choices on his part would have produced any different outcomes; but despite worrying over the various details of his life, he could not for the life of him find anything of significance that would have led to a better outcome. This invariably led him to feelings of resentment and bitterness at the hand that fate had dealt him, and he knew that more often than not, he was poor company, making him doubly appreciative of the fact that was nearly always left to his own devices.

 

When he quashed his thoughts of the past few weeks, alternatives for his future inevitably filled the void as he considered and discarded many of the potential options available to him, should his brothers be unable to clear his name. His first thoughts had been of home and returning to Gascony, believing that he might be able to fall back into the farming lifestyle, until he realized that the area would be one of the first to fall under scrutiny as men searched for him in an effort to carry out his sentence. His next thoughts had been of other locations throughout France, until he came to the conclusion that the man accused of the Ambassador’s murder would likely carry a high price on his head, making anywhere within the country’s borders unsafe. That line of thinking brought him to discard Spain as a possible option since the Spanish would be even more interested in bringing him to justice than his own countrymen. His options fast dwindling, he’d begun to wonder about the ships that departed French ports for England and other destinations, far beyond the waters that surrounded them. As before, his thoughts brought him little peace, each time coming to the conclusion that he would prefer to die in France than live in another country. If he were honest with himself, he could not even claim with any certainty that he preferred life as a commoner over death as a disgraced Musketeer, and he knew that if the real killer was not found, he might still have to disappoint his friends by choosing to return to Paris to face the hangman.  

 

The sound of neighing drew his attention back to the animal in front of him, which he had just finished saddling in preparation for a ride around the large fenced-in manège, where he’d be able to work with the horse without distraction. He led the horse into the centre of the enclosure and then fluidly pulled himself upwards and into the saddle, grateful that his bruised ribs barely protested the motion. He began with a slow walk, testing the horse’s responses to his commands before speeding up to a gentle canter, ensuring the animal was still moving smoothly and responding to his various movements. He was pleased with the animal’s performance and was leaning forward to pat its neck, reins held loosely in his left hand as another sound intruded. A quick glance over his left shoulder gave him a glimpse of Madame Trémaux’s hound racing toward him, Gilles running behind the animal in a feeble attempt to stop it before it entered the enclosure where he rode. The dog had proven to be energetic and d’Artagnan had enjoyed rubbing the large dog’s ears in the evenings when they’d retired to the sitting room, but he also knew the animal was intentionally kept away from the often high-strung horses that were bred and trained at the estate. Without warning, the animal beneath him began to move erratically as it picked up speed, the Gascon reflexively tightening his grip with his thighs as he swung back around to face forward, intending to bring the horse to a halt, but it was too late. Incensed by a combination of the dog’s barking and scent, the horse had panicked and d’Artagnan maintained his seat for only a moment longer as his inattentiveness cost him his balance and he went flying from the saddle. The portion of fencing that he struck offered a few seconds of resistance before crumpling beneath him, leaving him lying on the ground, tangled in pieces of broken timbre. He didn’t feel it when the wood broke under him, having been knocked unconscious when his head collided with one of the wooden slats, and he was still insensible when both the hound and Gilles reached him, the dog licking impatiently at his face in his desire for attention, its tongue lapping at the blood that trickled from his temple.

* * *

Madame Trémaux had been upset when her dog had bounded from the house, the door having been left open by accident by one of her staff who was in the process of sweeping out the main entryway. Gilles had been as reliable as always and, despite his advancing years, he’d run in pursuit of the animal, praying the entire time that the dog would turn away from the stables and head out into the woods or open pastureland instead. His hopes were dashed within seconds of setting out as the dog barreled toward the manège and his heart sank with the certainty that Denys would be out with a horse, and all he could do was hope that the young man was talented enough to manage the startled steed and keep both of them safe. He caught a glimpse of Denys’ face as the young man turned at the hound’s insistent barking and then, moments later, man and beast disappeared from his sight, and Gilles cursed his aging body as he struggled to run faster so he could see what had happened.

 

The first thing he could see when he arrived was the saddled horse, standing and skittishly tossing its head on the other side of the enclosed space. Closer to him, he followed the sound of the dog’s wining to where a portion of the fencing had collapsed, and among the debris lay the unconscious man. Cursing softly, he crouched down next to Denys, reaching a shaky hand forward to lay on the boy’s chest, relieved to feel both the beat of his heart and the expansion of his chest as he breathed. Exhaling slowly in relief, he considered the young man’s position, uncomfortably laying on and among the broken pieces of wood. It would be difficult to fully assess his injuries until he was awake, but Gilles was just as unwilling to leave the boy lying there for long, wanting to get him back to the house so he could be tended properly. The wound to the head was obvious due to the blood, and Gilles angrily pushed the dog away, disgusted that the animal had been licking at the gash. He hastily ran his hands over the boy’s arms and legs, feeling relatively confident that nothing was broken. Next, his hands pressed at the young man’s torso, eliciting a groan of pain despite the fact that he remained insensate. Gilles winced in sympathy, certain that some of the ribs had been damaged, making it that much harder for him to transport the boy back to the house. His problem was solved moments later as the servant who’d been sweeping came running up to him, obviously having followed in his wake to try and stop the runaway dog.

 

“I’ll need help getting him back to the house,” Gilles stated to the young girl. “Fetch René from the stables to come and give me a hand.” The girl offered a small curtsy before running off to do as she’d been asked. Gilles tapped the young man’s cheek with a hand, calling him by the name that his employer had shared with him, unaware that it held little meaning and was unlikely to rouse the boy. “Denys, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes so I know where you’re hurt.” He waited for several seconds before trying again. “Denys, you need to wake up now.” Still nothing, not even a groan, and Gilles sighed at the young’s man lack of response. Standing, he pulled dog away and looked toward the stables, relieved when he saw René’s approaching form. Between the two of them, they’d carry the boy back to the house and get him settled into bed, and he was confident that Madame Trémaux would send for a physician to check on him.

 

Denys was completely boneless as they carefully manhandled him to an upright position, an arm over each man’s shoulder as they walked back to the house, the young man’s feet dragging a furrow in the dirt along the way. His head hung low to his chest and worry spiked in Gilles’ belly as none of their actions brought forward even the slightest indication of awareness. Madame Trémaux was waiting for them at the entry to the house and she absently patted the dog’s head as he plodded toward her, nuzzling at her hand with his nose. She moved inside quickly, allowing the men access and wordlessly they followed her up the stairs to the boy’s room. When the young man had been settled onto the bed, Gilles dismissed René as Trémaux spoke with a servant, arranging for water and clean cloths to be brought to the room. Moving to sit on the bed, next to Denys, she looking inquiringly at Gilles.

 

The man answered as he motioned to the young man’s head and chest, “He hit his head and I’m certain that some of his ribs on the left side are broken. That’s all I found, but it’s possible he may be hurt elsewhere and we won’t know until he wakes to tell us.”

 

The woman nodded, hands already moving to lift the boy’s shirt, drawing a sharp breath when the bruising on his chest was revealed. Gilles took a step forward, brow furrowing as he said, “That’s strange. Some of that bruising looks several days old.”

 

Trémaux smiled up at him as she explained, “Denys had a minor mishap the day before he arrived. He told me it was nothing, but apparently he’s not to be trusted with matters of his health.”

 

Gilles gave a nod of understanding, familiar with other prideful young men who dismissed their injuries for fear of worrying those around them. “Shall I send someone for the physician?”

 

A look of panic seemed to cross the woman’s face, concealed as quickly as it had appeared and she forced herself to smile as she replied, “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Denys would not like being fussed over so, for now, we’ll tend to him ourselves.” Gilles didn’t seem convinced but was willing to allow the woman to have her way, especially since Denys was her cousin. “Will you please see what’s taking Marthe so long?” Gilles exited the room to go in search of the girl and Madame Trémaux released the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. She knew that the man disagreed with her decision regarding the physician, but she couldn’t risk having more people come into contact with the Musketeer. Hopefully, his injuries would be minor and within her abilities to care for.

 

Marthe timidly entered the room and Trémaux had her place the items she’d brought on the table, needing her help to undress the young man so she could properly evaluate his condition. They removed everything but his braies, the lady of the house allowing him the courtesy of not being fully undressed before the sister of his commanding officer. She and Marthe washed the young man’s face and neck, removing the last traces of blood from his skin, and then expertly wrapped his ribs. When this was done, Trémaux dismissed the girl, content to watch over the young man on her own as she prayed for him to awake soon. The hours crawled by as day became night and Gilles came to check in on them several times, each time beseeching his lady to leave the boy’s side, only to be adamantly refused. Gilles believed it to be because of the concern she held for her cousin and Trémaux didn’t correct him; in truth, she feared for the boy’s precarious position as a fugitive.

 

The night passed and still d’Artagnan slept, the woman sitting in a chair at his side, dozing uncomfortably but unwilling to be separated from her charge. It wasn’t until morning that Madame Trémaux was woken from sleep by the sound of someone groaning, and she sat up as her eyes opened, looking expectantly at the young man. It took several minutes before he roused enough for his lids to open and when they did, she could see the pain of his injuries reflected there. Reaching a hand forward, she cupped his cheek as she asked him, “How are you feeling?”

 

d’Artagnan blinked muzzily, still trying to orient himself and clearly battling the pain he felt. When he finally answered, his voice was hoarse and low, “Hurts.”

 

She nodded kindly at him, “I know. Do you remember what happened?”

 

The young man’s eyes fluttered closed for several moments and Trémaux worried that he’d fallen asleep again, but he looked up at her after he’d considered her question and shook his head, stopping abruptly as the movement made his pain spike. His eyes closed again as he breathed against the pain, a moan escaping as he discovered the ache in his ribs. His hostess kept her hand on his cheek, murmuring words of comfort as he battled against the pain. When his eyes re-opened, his expression was lost as he asked, “What happened to me?”

 

She offered a warm smile as she explained, “You were thrown from a horse into a fence and I’m sad to report, the fence seems to have come out the victor.”

 

He looked at her in confusion, tongue licking his dry lips and Trémaux reached for a cup of water on the table behind her, lifting his head up slightly as she held the cup to his mouth. When he’d lain back, his puzzlement remained. “Who are you?” he breathed out, eyes still doing their best to focus on her.

 

She drew a sharp breath at the question, a hand going to the base of her throat as she fought for composure. “I’m Madame Trémaux, the Captain’s sister.” She waited for several heartbeats for recognition to dawn, but the expression on the young man’s face remained unchanged. Mustering confidence she didn’t feel, she soothed him, “I’m certain it will all come back to you once you’re feeling better. Close your eyes now and rest.”

 

It was a testament to how poorly he was feeling that he didn’t offer any argument to her suggestion, but simply allowed his lids to drift closed and slept. When the lady was certain that d’Artagnan was asleep, she rose from the chair, nervously running her hands along the front of her dress to smooth out the wrinkles that had formed. “Oh, Jean-Armand, what am I to with the boy now?” With nothing else to do until he woke, she quietly left the room, pulling the door closed behind her, deciding to take a short break away from the young man’s bedside while she had the opportunity.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re safe,” he breathed out as his eyes closed and he fell limply into her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful reactions to the twist in the last chapter, and to tinadp who continues to catch my crazy typos. d'Artagnan gets a bit of a break next, which means I had to turn my attention elsewhere...hope you enjoy!

The day passed slowly, Madame Trémaux spending a large portion of her time at the young man’s side, there each time he awoke, hopeful that as the hours passed his lucidity would improve. Sadly, that was not the case and it only became more obvious that the Musketeer had no recollection of his time at the estate nor of his history prior to arriving. She’d done her best to calm him when he’d realized during his last waking moments that he didn’t even know his own name, but he’d hyperventilated, the experience made worse by the agony of his broken ribs, and he’d passed out. She’d made the decision then that it would be irresponsible of her to keep him from proper medical attention, having neither the knowledge to assist with his memory loss, nor medication to manage his pain. It was too late for anything to be done now, but she ordered the physician to be sent for the following morning, unwilling to send any of her staff into town in the dark. Instead, she spent another night at the young man’s side, managing to get him to drink small amounts of water and broth, and otherwise simply comforting him through her presence, holding his hand in hers. Fortunately, he still spent the majority of this time asleep and she believed this to be a kindness, unable to fathom how terrifying it must be to wake time and again in unfamiliar surroundings, with no knowledge of oneself, and in pain.  

 

She was woken from a restless sleep by a knock at the door and realized with a start that morning had arrived and the physician had been brought per her instructions the previous night. Standing quickly, she ran a hand across her hair, doing her best to tidy the wisps that had pulled free during the night. “Come in,” she called, still smoothing her dress as she took a step away from the bed and turned to face the door. As she’d expected, the physician had arrived and was led inside by Gilles. She gave the man a warm smile of thanks as the physician moved forward to examine his patient.

 

“Any improvement?” Gilles asked, the concern plainly written on his face.

 

Madame Trémaux shook her head in reply, turning back to the bed to watch the physician work, ready to move closer to calm the boy if he awoke. The man was pressing on the young man’s injured left flank and she winced as she watched d’Artagnan’s eyes flutter, unable to remain asleep through the pain. She moved around to the other side of the bed, placing a hand on his cheek so that she could get his attention as soon as he was aware. The physician paused and allowed her to explain what was happening. “Denys, it’s good to see you awake.” She waited for him to focus on her and he gave a small nod in reply, grimacing as the movement jarred his still fragile head. “Denys, there’s a physician here to examine you.” She motioned to the opposite side of the bed and removed her hand as d’Artagnan rolled his head to look at the man. After several seconds, he turned back to her and spoke softly, “alright.” She nodded to the physician but stayed next to the bed as the examination resumed.

 

d’Artagnan’s answers to the physician’s questions were short, but predictable, and Trémaux took a small bit of comfort in the fact that the man had so far not done anything that she hadn’t already tried, easing her guilt at not having sent for the man earlier. When he’d finished, he moved away from the bed, indicating his desire for the lady to follow him, which she did after giving d’Artagnan’s hand a final squeeze before sliding her hand free from his. “He seems to be healing as well as can be expected.”

 

Madame Trémaux frowned at him, “What of his memory?”

 

The physician shrugged, “Injuries to the head can be troublesome. Sometimes the memory is affected and sometimes it returns. There is no way to know.”

 

“Do you mean to tell me that this could be permanent?” she hissed at him, her emotion making it difficult to speak quietly despite her desire not to alarm her patient.

 

“Madame, there is nothing I can do. His memories will either return or they will not; it is out of my hands.” With that, he reached into his bag and withdrew a small vial. “If he is in pain, you may give him two drops of this on the tongue.” He tipped his hat and turned on his heel to leave, Gilles following to escort him out.

 

Trémaux stood in place as she watched him leave, taking several seconds to calm herself before returning to d’Artagnan’s side. Holding up the glass bottle, she said, “I have something here for the pain. Would you like some?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face showed a glimpse of something before his expression became blank, and she wondered if he’d remembered something. He shook his head slightly as he answered, “No, thank you. I can handle it.”

 

The man’s reply made her frown as she knew his injuries had to be painful, especially after the physician’s poking and prodding. “Are you certain, Denys? I imagine that your head and side must ache a fair bit.”

 

He gave a shy half-smile, the most life he’d shown since he’d been hurt and she couldn’t help but smile back. “It’s not that bad.”

 

“Alright,” she acquiesced, “but you must promise that you’ll tell me if you change your mind.” He gave a slight dip of his head in agreement.

 

"Could you help me sit up?" he asked hesitantly, still uncertain of his place in the house.

 

“Of course,” she replied, moving to gather more pillows from the cupboard and then helping the boy sit upright, placing the cushions behind his back as he held himself up on shaky arms. When she’d finished, he leaned back gratefully, sweat dotting his brow from the minor exertion. She wet a cloth and wiped his face, earning a look of gratitude from the young man and she was struck by how young and vulnerable he looked. Returning the cloth to the basin, she said, “You must be hungry. I’ll have the cook prepare something for you.”

 

He didn’t seem overly excited at the thought of food but gave a small nod regardless, not wanting to upset his hostess who’d so far treated him kindly. She smiled at his agreement and left the room, d’Artagnan slumping more firmly into the pillows behind him as soon as she’d left. The truth was that he hurt terribly, but something tugged at his mind, telling him not to accept the medication he’d been offered. It was the closest thing he’d had to a memory so he’d heeded it, having no idea why he felt the way he did, but deciding to trust the feelings he’d experienced when she’d offered the pain relief. He knew that he could manage the aches that wrapped tightly around his head and side, increasing in their intensity with each thoughtless movement and, again, he had no idea where that belief sprang from, but was desperate enough to return to himself that he didn’t question it further.

 

Now that he was alone, he cast his eyes about the room, noting the fine furnishings and recognizing that the home was owned by someone of status. He had no memory of Madame Trémaux but she’d explained that he’d had an accident while riding, and he couldn’t imagine any reason why she would deceive him about the cause of his injuries, so he believed her. She called him Denys and, while he had no idea of his name, the one she used struck him as somehow wrong, but he could hardly disagree with her since he had no proof to the contrary. Despite the fact that he’d been treated well and, had so far had few moments of clarity, he felt unexplainably anxious, something greater than the loss of his memories compelling him to leave the house and run away. He’d considered asking the woman for more information about his circumstances, but he’d had little opportunity to do so thus far and, in truth, he was somewhat fearful of what he might learn.

 

His thoughts were cut short but the lady’s return as she bustled inside, placing a tray on the table next to his bed. She’d brought a small bowl of thin soup along with a chunk of soft bread, hoping that his stomach might manage the relatively light meal so he could begin eating normally once more. She passed the bowl to him, noting the minor tremble of his hands, but didn’t call attention to it, simply chatting about some of the unimportant goings-on of the estate to distract him while he ate. His bites were slow and measured and she could tell that his stomach was still unsettled, so she didn’t say anything when he returned the bowl to her hands after only managing half of its contents. As she returned the soup to the tray, she looked at him with concern in her eyes, “Denys, are you certain you won’t take something for the pain?”

 

His dark brown eyes met hers, the contrast starker than she remembered due to his unnaturally pale face. “No, thank you.” He looked down at his lap for a moment, hands twisting nervously in the blanket. “Could you tell me some more about myself? Perhaps it would help my memories to return.”

 

Madame Trémaux’s heart clenched at the hopeful look on the young man’s face, wanting so desperately to be honest with him, but fearful of what might happen if his secret was discovered. Affixing a smile to her face, she began. “Of course. I don’t know much as I haven’t seen you in a long time but you are my cousin,” she said, choosing to continue with the story she and her brother had agreed upon. “You arrived nearly a week ago to help with the horses while my husband is away. From what Gilles has told me, you are very skilled and were doing an admirable job.”

 

d’Artagnan smiled shyly at the compliment and Trémaux couldn’t help but think how natural his reaction was, having responded similarly earlier in the week when she’d praised him. “Am I a horse trainer then?” he asked.

 

She considered her answer for a moment before replying, “You have many talents including those with horses.”

 

He gave a small nod, thinking of his next question. “What of my other family?”

 

She knew a little of the boy’s past from her brother’s letters and decided she could be honest in answering. “Your parents are both gone and you have no siblings.” The young man’s face fell and she swore she could see sorrow in his eyes as she hurriedly added, “You are not alone, though. You have three very close friends who are like brothers to you and would do anything for you.”

 

Her words rang true and she watched as his face clouded, clearly a hint of a memory returning but not enough for him to grasp. Placing a hand over his she suggested, “You’re still tired. Why don’t you rest for a while and I’ll return in a few hours with lunch. We can speak more than.”

 

He gave a tilt of his head before relaxing back against the pillows, eyes closing as he sighed in relief, his headache easing somewhat in his new position. Trémaux gathered her skirts and stood, slipping quietly from the room, concerned at how they would continue now that he was becoming more aware. It had been six days since the boy’s arrival and she prayed for news from her brother, but if nothing arrived by the following day, she would have no choice but to send a letter of her own to Paris to update him and ask for his counsel about how to proceed.

* * *

The first days after d’Artagnan’s escape had found the Musketeer garrison under close scrutiny by the Red Guards, Rochefort making no excuses for the increased presence of his men patrolling around streets surrounding the King’s guard. As a result, there had been several barely avoided brawls between the two groups as the Musketeers grew weary of the Red Guards’ harassment. Treville had felt increased pressure from the palace as well, having spent hours in front of the King, repeatedly denying knowledge of d’Artagnan’s whereabouts and complicity in his escape. He knew that as long as he didn’t admit to anything, there was little that could be done, since Rochefort had no evidence that contradicted Treville’s adamant claims; for that he was eternally grateful as his thoughts drifted momentarily to his sister who had immediately agreed to hide his disgraced soldier.

 

When enough time had passed following the discovery of d’Artagnan’s absence from the Chatelet, the inseparables had wandered out, intentionally swaggering confidently past the Red Guards hovering around the gates and, as expected, had been followed to a tavern where they enjoyed a leisurely meal. The longer they sat, adopting an attitude of three men without a care, the more the guards seethed until one of their number strode forward, angrily placing a hand on the table as he leaned into Athos’ face in an attempt to intimidate the man. They’d shared a few words, the Red Guard accusatory, Athos calm and uncaring, before Porthos had taken offense to a particularly nasty insult at the older man’s parentage. Without missing a beat, Porthos drove the tines of his fork through the fleshy portion of the guard’s hand, leaving him howling with pain while the three collected their hats and walked away, staring at the other Red Guards as if daring them to follow; none of them did.

 

After that initial drawing of blood, the Red Guards kept their distance and Porthos was able to slip away from his friends and return to the Court, determined to search every dirty alley and hovel until he’d located Christophe. His friends knew that he would not return until he’d succeeded and they shared a silent look, all of them understanding what had passed between them. _Stay safe. Return soon._ Porthos returned the look with a nod as he glided away from them, disappearing between one step and the next. Athos and Aramis would continue to be visible on the streets of Paris, hopefully diverting the guards’ attention from Porthos and allowing him to move freely until he was ready to re-join them at the garrison.

 

Porthos passed through several small alleyways until he stood at the edge of the Court and, with one last look around to confirm he hadn’t been followed, he stepped forward, sensing immediately that hidden eyes were upon him as he crossed the border between the bustle of Paris and the space dominated by criminals and the forgotten ones. He moved confidently, his senses attuned to everything around him but feeling safe enough as a prince of Court, a title Flea had bestowed upon him after Charon had been killed. Still, it was always possible that there would be those who didn’t know him or disagreed with Flea’s decision, so he remained aware, refusing to be caught off-guard. He stepped into the building where Flea held court, the two men at the doorway giving him a hard stare before recognition dawned and they allowed him to enter. He stood at the back of the dimly-lit room, waiting for his eyes to adjust and for Flea to notice him. She was speaking with another man and dismissed him almost immediately as her eyes landed on the large Musketeer. With a smile on her face, she moved toward him, Porthos doing the same and giving her a firm hug, followed by a deep kiss before releasing her.

 

As happy as he was to see Flea, worry painted his features and the woman took his hand in hers as she led the way out through a back exit. As they walked, she shared with him what she knew. “There’s still no formal news of Christophe’s location but d’Artagnan’s escape has sent ripples through Paris, enough to even reach the depths of the Court. There’s a substantial bounty on his head and there are many here who would try to collect it, even if it means stealing the boy away from you.”

 

Porthos bit his lip, squeezing Flea’s hand as he considered the troubling information. “Any way you can keep people away from ‘im? Let ‘em know the Musketeers will pay for the boy’s safe delivery but they’ll have hell to pay if they go after the bounty?”

 

Flea shrugged noncommittally; sadly, they both knew that there was little hope of reasoning with those who had nothing and, while Flea did her best to take care of the Court’s residents, there were still those few who resisted her rule and would act in their own self-interests. “You ‘ave any idea where he’s hidin’?”

 

Flea nodded and tugged at his hand, urging him to continue following. They moved to the outer edges of the Court and into the areas that were poor, even by their standards, the inhabitants here the worst of the worst and those who were barely managing to survive. Porthos’ hand moved to the hilt of his sword, resting there casually but warning those around them that he and Flea were no easy targets. Flea stopped in front of half-destroyed house, the walls on one side collapsing inwards and threatening to give way under a heavy wind. She moved to the overgrown steps that led downwards, ducking through a small door into what was likely once the cellar. Porthos followed her cautiously, stopping just inside the doorway as he struggled to see anything in the dark space. When his eyes had adjusted, he was shocked to find a group of six children ranging in age from four to ten, all of them with dirty faces and patched clothing, but incredibly with large grins on their faces.

 

One of the larger boys stepped forward and gave a small bow to Flea, “Your Majesty.” Porthos bit the inside of his cheek to hide the grin that was threatening, amused at how seriously the child had addressed the Queen of the Court.

 

Deciding that playing along would be the best way to win the boy’s trust, Flea inclined her head in acknowledgement. “My loyal subjects, I am here on a matter of grave importance seeking a young man named Christophe. Do any of you know where he can be found?” Based on the description they’d gotten from d’Artagnan, both adults believed the child in front of them was the one they sought, but it would be easier if he identified himself and answered their questions willingly.

 

The boy exchanged looks with some of the other children behind him, several of them shaking their heads, suggesting he lie, but the boy turned back to face them and drew himself up straight as he replied, “I’m Christophe.”

 

Flea gave the boy a warm smile, “Is there somewhere we might speak, in private?” She glanced at the children, making her meaning clear. Christophe waved at the children and they dispersed in a quick and obviously well-rehearsed fashion that would come in handy when in danger. When the last child was gone, Flea motioned for Porthos to approach. “This is my protector, Porthos. He is also a Musketeer.” She and Porthos watched as Christophe’s face blanched, the larger man positioning himself to catch the child if he decided to run. The boy glanced between Porthos and the door, apparently concluding that he was unlikely to make good his escape, and he swallowed, looking up at the large man who towered above him.

 

Coming down to one knee, Porthos slowly moved a hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder. “Christophe, you’re not in any danger from me. I know that you tricked a friend of mine into leaving the garrison but I’m not mad at you. I know what it’s like to go hungry and to need to survive.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. When the boy remained silent, he continued, “The man that hired you is a very dangerous man and he’s trying to hurt my friend. I need you to tell me anything you can remember about him so I can track him down and keep my friend safe.”

 

Christophe seemed to be considering Porthos’ words and when he spoke, it was to ask a question rather than answering the Musketeer’s. “How do you know what it’s like to live here when you’re a Musketeer?”

 

Porthos allowed a grin to split his face, pleased that the boy had thought to ask. “I grew up here with Flea,” he motioned toward her with his head. “Then one day I helped the Captain of the Musketeers and he offered to sponsor my training. I decided to accept his offer but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about my days in the Court.”

 

Sensing the boy’s indecision, Flea added her words in support of Porthos. “He’s telling you the truth and he helps the people here whenever he can.”

 

Porthos gave Flea a grateful smile before returning his gaze to the boy. “Alright. I think he was a noble ‘cause his clothes looked expensive; lots of embroidery and fine lace. I called him the cheese man.” Porthos’ brow furrowed in confusion at the boy’s words, causing Christophe to giggle. “You know, Roquefort, the cheese.”

 

It was close enough that Porthos knew without a doubt that it had been Rochefort who’d orchestrated d’Artagnan’s kidnapping and he thumped the boy’s shoulder gently in encouragement. “You did well, Christophe, very well.” Standing, he looked at Flea, “We need to keep the boy safe. If Rochefort suspects that he might turn against him, he’ll kill ‘im.”

 

Christophe crossed his arms a look of anger appearing on his face, “Don’t need anyone to keep me safe. Been takin’ care of myself since I was four.”

 

Porthos nodded at the boy, “I know ya have, lad, but this man is dangerous and the Queen is worried about you.” He glanced at Flea who nodded in agreement. “How ‘bout you come back with us and spend a few days at court to make her feel better. It wouldn’t be forever, just till we can take care of things.”

 

Again, the two found themselves being appraised by the young child and it normally would have brought smiles to both their faces, had it not been for the gravity of the situation. The boy finally gave a decisive nod. “Alright, I’ll come with. Just so you don’t worry, mind.”

 

“Of course,” Flea replied. “Thank you for your consideration of my feelings.”

 

The trio climbed back out of the small space and to the street above, the two adults keeping the boy between them as they retraced their steps. They were nearly back when Porthos’ neck prickled, alerting him to the presence of someone else close by. “Flea, I think we’ve got company.” She gave an imperceptible nod but her steps never faltered. “If anythin’ happens, take the boy and run. If you don’t feel safe here, go to the garrison and ask for Athos and Aramis – they’ll protect you.” He received another slight nod as his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw if needed.

 

They managed another ten feet before the men attacked. There were four of them, brandishing clubs and knives but fortunately nothing more threatening. Porthos pushed the boy toward Flea and caught a glimpse of them running before he turned to face the men, blocking the path so they couldn’t follow his companions. He pulled his loaded pistol first and shot the largest man, needing to even the odds in his favor. The other three barely took notice of their friend’s fate as they continued to advance and Porthos swapped his empty pistol for his sword, pulling his main gauche as well with his left hand. An evil grin on his face as he brandished his weapons, he warned the advancing men, “You don’t want to do this.”

 

The three men traded looks and Porthos could read their intention even before the first man began to move toward him, raising his club high above his head, planning to bring it down against Porthos’ skull. The Musketeer nimbly stepped to the side, avoiding the blow, raising his dagger to parry the knife that was swiping at his chest. Unlike many attackers, the three moved in unison, forcing Porthos to protect himself on several fronts, not allowing him any opportunity to catch his breath. He brought his sword up to block a blow from the club, stepping forward as he did so to pull his dagger across the man’s throat as the momentum of his deflected strike carried him away from Porthos.

 

The two remaining men both held wicked looking knives and one of the men was throwing his in a lazy arc between his two hands, forcing Porthos to watch the blade in anticipation of its owner’s attack. The second man took advantage of Porthos’ momentary distraction, throwing his blade at the Musketeer and grinning in satisfaction as it buried itself in the meat of his right shoulder. His arm went numb immediately, his sword dropping from his hand, and he brought his dagger up to block another strike from the other man’s knife. As he did so successfully, he followed the man as he retreated a step, turning the dagger in his hand and using its hilt to knock the man unconscious.

 

The last attacker eyed Porthos’ sword warily and Porthos inched closer, determined not to allow the man a weapon. “Come on,” he goaded, aware that his wound was still leaking blood and needing to end things before he was physically unable to. The man seemed unwilling to engage him though, continuously circling and stepping away from Porthos’ advances so the Musketeer decided to take a page out of his attacker’s book, unerringly throwing his dagger at the man’s chest. He was nowhere as accurate as Athos or even d’Artagnan when it came to knife throwing, but at this distance, even he could not miss. The man looked down dumbly at the blade that jutted from his chest, dropping to his knees before his eyes closed and he fell to his side. “Finally,” Porthos groused, beginning to feel the effects of both the pain and blood loss.      

 

Porthos carefully bent to retrieve his dagger and his sword, wiping the former on the dead man’s clothes before sheathing both blades. His head swam dangerously as he stood upright and he knew that he was only minutes away from passing out. As his vision began to tunnel, he forced his heavy feet forward, plodding down the path that Flea and Christophe had taken, grateful that they’d only been a couple streets away from Flea’s sanctuary. The same two men stood guard outside Flea’s door and they moved aside hastily as they saw the sweat-covered face of the large Musketeer. Inside, Flea and the boy were waiting and she moved forward immediately when he entered, the boy following close on her heels. Porthos gave her a weak grin as his knees buckled, Flea holding him so he didn’t fall the rest of the way to the floor. “You’re safe,” he breathed out as his eyes closed and he fell limply into her arms.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he drifted off, his last thoughts were of d’Artagnan, hope burning like a small flame beneath closed lids as his anticipation of bringing the boy home grew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porthos thanks everyone for their concern and well-wishes after the last chapter. The boys finally make some progress in this next one which is, sadly, without d'Artagnan, who is still enjoying Madame Tremaux's hospitality.

It was late by the time Athos and Aramis left the tavern where they’d eaten their evening meal and consumed several glasses of wine. Over his shoulder, Athos could see their perpetual shadow in the form of two Red Guards who had unluckily drawn the short straw and been assigned to follow them around. He couldn’t imagine what they’d thought of the day’s activities which had included a trip to the market to look at the various wares available for sale, a stop to pick out cloth and order two new shirts, and a visit to the Luxembourg Gardens. They’d walked everywhere that day and the older Musketeer could feel every step in the soreness of his feet, but it had been worth it to spite Rochefort’s men and keep their attention away from Porthos’ activities. They’d decided to head back to the garrison now, doubting that Porthos would be back, but knowing that he would meet them there eventually, once he’d finished in the Court of Miracles.  

 

They’d only travelled a couple of streets when a woman moved away from the building where she’d been leaning, obviously ready to proposition them. As they approached, Athos’ breath caught in his throat, recognizing Flea as the woman who waited for them. Aramis threw a concerned glance at his friend even as Flea moved closer, making an offer to provide them with an evening of entertainment. Aramis smiled as he took her in his arms, keeping up the ruse for the men who followed them. As she leaned into him, she tipped her head upwards, whispering, “Porthos has been hurt. Follow me.”

 

He allowed Flea to remove herself from his embrace, keeping an arm around her waist as they walked, “Come, Athos, this lovely lady has made us a proposition we can’t refuse.” Athos merely offered a short nod and followed along as Flea and Aramis continued their flirtation. As they passed by an abandoned storefront, she pulled Aramis inside, Athos following immediately on his heels, and as soon as they were clear of the door, two men shifted boards to cover up the entrance while Flea led the way to an exit at the back. From there, they navigated through a series of alleys and back streets as Flea guided them deeper into the Court. When they arrived, Flea pointed toward the bed that sat along the far wall of the room, a familiar head full of dark curls resting on the thin pillow. “Porthos,” Aramis breathed out, crossing the room to his friend’s side as Athos followed more sedately, allowing the medic the opportunity to examine the injured man. 

 

Aramis sat on the side of the bed and loosened the bandages that bound Porthos’ shoulder, wincing at the still slowly seeping wound. Turning back to Flea he asked, “Do you have any wine or brandy, and more clean bandages?”

 

“Yes,” she answered as she moved away to collect the requested items.

 

Aramis was already shrugging out of his doublet and rolling up his shirtsleeves, pulling a small leather packet from a pouch at his waist, opening it before laying it out on Porthos’ chest. Athos stood at his shoulder and peered at Porthos’ wound, recognizing that it would need to be closed before the man lost any more blood or succumbed to infection. When Flea returned, Aramis took the items she’d brought and moved to douse his needle with wine, while Athos took his place and attempted to wake the large Musketeer. Placing a gentle hand on Porthos cheek, he tapped it, calling his name, “Porthos, can you wake up for me. It’s Athos and Aramis; we’re both here with you and you’re safe.”

 

He watched as Porthos drew a deeper inhale and then opened his eyes, his lips quirking slightly as Porthos offered him a slight grin. “Athos,” he breathed out.

 

Athos gave a small nod and moved his hand to his friend’s chest, unwilling to break the contact just yet. “What happened?” he asked.

 

Porthos gave a half-shrug with his good shoulder, “We were followed after we found Christophe. I sent Flea and the boy ahead while I took care of ‘em.”

 

Athos raised an inquiring eyebrow at Flea who nodded, confirming the Musketeer’s story. “There were four of them,” she added, and Athos could have sworn he detected a hint of pride in her voice.

 

Turning back to face Porthos, he explained, “Your wound needs to be stitched. Can you handle it?”

 

Porthos grimaced but nodded, “Yeah, I’ll be alright.”

 

Athos relinquished his seat as Aramis returned, the medic grinning broadly at seeing his friend awake. Holding the needle up so Porthos could see it, he confirmed, “Are you certain you don’t want Athos to knock you out?”

 

Eyes darting to where Flea stood, he shook his head again, a bit of frustration bleeding into his tone, “I’m fine, Aramis, just get on with it.” Aramis dipped his head to the task, hiding the mocking smile that threatened at Porthos’ desire to appear strong in front of his former love. After he’d cleaned, closed and re-bandaged the wound, Aramis allowed Flea closer and she wiped at Porthos’ face with a wet cloth, removing the sheen of sweat that sat there.

 

Aramis and Athos moved several steps away, Athos looking expectantly at the medic, “As long as infection doesn’t set in, he should be fine.”

 

“Can he be moved?” Athos asked, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving their friend where he was.

 

Aramis gave a nod, “Yes, but he won’t like it. Although he’d never say anything, he’s hurting and will be weak from blood loss.”

 

They repositioned themselves next to Porthos’ bed, Aramis indicating to Flea to stay where she was with a hand. “Where is the boy?” Athos enquired.

 

It was Flea who replied, “I have him next door with several of my most trusted men. I promise, no harm will come to him.”

 

“What did you learn from him?” Athos continued, needing to know that Porthos had put his life at risk for good reason.

 

“Rochefort,” Porthos answered, a small huff of laughter coming from his chest. “The boy called him stinky cheese.”

 

Athos looked confused but Aramis’ face lit up as he said, “Ah, Roquefort cheese. A simple enough mistake, I think.”

 

“All the evidence points to him although the question remains, why would he want the Ambassador dead?” Athos mused.

 

“Time enough to think about that once we’re back,” Aramis interjected. “Porthos, do you think you can manage the trip back with our help?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos confirmed, already trying to sit up, Flea reaching for his arm to help him accomplish the task.

 

“Do you have his clothes?” Aramis asked and the woman left the bed to gather the Musketeer’s bloodied shirt and doublet. The two men helped Porthos dress, the large man sitting unsteadily on the edge of the bed, Aramis fashioning a sling for his arm afterwards to alleviate some of the pain caused by the weight of his arm. When they’d finished, they pulled him to his feet and Aramis steadied him while Athos took his weapons from Flea and attached them at Porthos’ waist. “Just lean on us as we go, Porthos,” Aramis advised and Porthos nodded in understanding, his head already hanging heavily from his neck. “If anyone asks, we’ll say you had too much wine.”

 

That drew a small grin from the large man and he mumbled, “Can hold my drink better than you.”

 

Aramis snorted in amusement as he agreed, “Yes, you certainly can, my friend, but not tonight.”

 

Athos and Aramis both gave Flea a look of gratitude as they guided Porthos outside, one of the men leaving his post at the door to lead them out of the Court. They moved slowly, Porthos’ feet leaden and uncoordinated, but between them they soon had him safely ensconced in Athos’ bed, his rooms being the nearest to where they’d been. Porthos had been nearly unconscious by the time they’d arrived and they’d efficiently stripped him down to his braies, Aramis pressing a cup of water on his friend before he was allowed to rest. The medic now sat next to the bed to watch over the man, while Athos prepared to go out again, intending to return to the garrison to update Treville.

 

Without turning, Aramis called out, “Stay sharp out there, Athos. There’s no telling what depths the Red Guards will stoop to as Rochefort grows more desperate.” Athos gave a nod even though he knew his friend would not see it. “Oh, and stop by my rooms and bring my bag – you know the one. I want to have my supplies at hand in case they’re needed.” Aramis heard the door open and close as he settled in to wait, confident that Athos would report to the Captain and bring back his medical bag. 

* * *

Athos was gone longer than Aramis had expected and, by the time he actually returned, the medic had been starting to consider what he would do if something had happened to Athos while he sat at Porthos’ side. When the Musketeer arrived, Aramis released a long exhale, sending a quick prayer of thanks for keeping his friend safe. Athos merely lifted an eyebrow in his direction but didn’t comment, walking to the table to sit and pour himself a glass of wine. Aramis took a last look at Porthos before joining him, waiting expectantly. Athos pushed the requested bag of medical supplies over to him and Aramis took it with an appreciative nod. “The Captain and I discussed strategy so it took me longer than I expected to get back.” Aramis knew the words were for his sake and he gave another short nod of understanding. “I’ve advised him of Rochefort’s involvement as well as Porthos’ wound. We have tomorrow for ourselves and then we’re on duty at the palace the following day. It will give us the opportunity to get away and search Rochefort’s rooms while he’s occupied with other matters.”

 

“That’s not much of plan,” Aramis countered. “What if Rochefort leaves?”

 

“Treville will be there as well. He will engage the man in conversation about the attention we’ve been receiving from the Red Guards since d’Artagnan’s escape. Rochefort will have no choice but to remain and defend his actions to the King,” Athos explained, taking a drink of his wine. “How is Porthos?”

 

Aramis glanced over at the sleeping man, “He hasn’t woken and is resting well.”

 

Athos’ shoulders released a little of their tension at the good news. “It’s late. Why don’t you go back to your rooms and get some sleep?” Athos suggested.

 

Aramis shook his head, a rueful smile on his face, “I think it best if we stay together for the next few days.” Rising, he returned to his seat next to the bed. “Besides, I can rest here as easily as I can in my own bed.” With that, he rested his feet on the edge of the bed, leaning back as he tipped his hat over his eyes.

 

Athos had expected nothing less and he finished his glass of wine before settling himself as comfortably as he could in his chair, waiting for the night to pass. 

* * *

Their day of rest had passed quietly, Porthos continuing to improve as his friends ensured he ate and slept. Aramis had confirmed that the wound was free of infection, but it would be another couple of days before he was comfortable allowing the large man to move any further than a trip to the chamber pot. Porthos had protested, as they knew he would, but the two men were adamant that he would stay where he was, regardless of the fact that he’d displaced Athos from his bed.

 

On the following day, Porthos’ mood had darkened considerably, unhappy about the plan that would have two of them at the palace, with one of them in harm’s way as they searched Rochefort’s rooms. Aramis allowed an exasperated sigh to escape as he placed a hand on his friend’s uninjured shoulder, “Porthos, everything will be fine. The Captain will be there to keep the man busy. What could possibly go wrong?”

 

Aramis cringed as he spoke the words, Athos coming to stand beside him as he repeated dryly, “Yes, what could possibly go wrong.”

 

Aramis threw his hands in the air as he replied, “Oh, you know what I mean.” Athos placed a hand on the medic’s arm as their eyes met, letting him know he understood.

 

Turning to the bedridden man, he assured, “Everything will be alright and worrying will not help any. Rest and we’ll be back to share our news later this afternoon.”

 

Porthos was still unhappy, but there was little that could be done. He was not yet fit for duty and his presence at the palace might raise questions that they preferred not to have to answer. “Watch yourselves,” he said, meeting each man’s gaze in turn before they headed out.

 

The day outside was bright with sunshine, the residual coolness from the evening already beginning to burn off as they made their way to the garrison. Once there, they joined the others on duty that day and reported to the palace, the Captain efficiently organizing them into their various posts, both inside and outside of the royals’ residence. Athos and Aramis remained close to Treville, waiting for Rochefort to appear so one of them could take advantage and slip away. Aramis had argued vehemently that he should be the one to go but Athos had overruled him, unyielding in his stance that he would not see any more of his friends hurt by Rochefort’s actions. Finally, their opportunity arrived, Rochefort, Treville and the King all in the same room, and Athos glided quietly away as the Captain engaged his counterpart in conversation. As he left, Aramis drifted closer to the door, seemingly out of deference to the men’s discussion, but in truth planting himself in the way of anyone trying to exit, should the need arise for him to delay Rochefort’s departure from the room.

 

Athos made his way swiftly down the hallway and up a set of stairs, which he knew were most often used by the numerous servants who ensured the smooth running of the palace. He passed by one or two others, but the staff were used to seeing Musketeers around and no one gave him a second look. He was nearing the door to Rochefort’s rooms when a voice called his name. He flinched at the sound and stopped, turning around with greater calm that he felt. Moving toward him was Constance Bonacieux, a curious look on her face.

 

When she’d drawn near, he greeted her, “Madame Bonacieux. Can I help you with something?”

 

Constance pursed her lips and she looked both ways down the hall and then spared a glance for the door that stood several feet away from them. “What are you looking for?”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed at her question, “To what are you referring?”

 

Constance face turned impatient at his answer, “What are you looking for in Rochefort’s rooms?”

 

Athos’ eyes darted to the door, realizing that the woman had figured out his intent. Deciding to trust her, he lowered his voice as he replied, “If I can find the Queen’s letter to her brother, it will go a long way to shaking the King’s faith in Rochefort and may give us the leverage we need to clear d’Artagnan’s name.”

 

Bonacieux nodded, the same thought having crossed her mind already. “Alright then. You keep watch out here and I’ll go have a look.”

 

As she made to move toward the door, Athos gripped her arm, a look of alarm on his face. “I do not think d’Artagnan would approve of me allowing you to take such a risk.”

 

Constance narrowed her eyes at him and Athos could see the inner strength she possessed and which had drawn his protégé to her. “If you think that I’m going to stand by and allow d’Artagnan to hang, then you’re sorely mistaken.” She looked pointedly at her arm where Athos’ hand still sat. Reluctantly, he released her and she cracked the door open, slipping softly inside as Athos positioned himself in front of it. It would still be awkward to explain their presence, but perhaps not quite as difficult if he were discovered in the Comte’s rooms. Taking a steadying breath, he prayed that Constance would be quick. 

* * *

When Athos was re-entering the room where the King was holding court, he could clearly hear the somewhat raised voices from within, reassuring him that their ruse had worked. Aramis moved aside casually when he caught the movement of the door and positioned himself next to Athos once his friend was inside. With a questioning look, he received confirmation from Athos that he’d at the very least remained undiscovered, but anything more would need to wait until they were within the garrison walls. The Captain turned his head slightly, noting his lieutenant’s presence and wrapped up his conversation, voicing a last warning to the Comte to stop interfering with the Musketeers’ ability to carry out their orders. 

 

Taking his leave, Treville strode quickly toward the two friends, the men parting and allowing their commander to lead the way out. Silence reigned as they collected their horses and departed the palace grounds, navigating the streets toward the garrison. When they arrived, all of them handed their horses off to the stable boy and the Captain ordered them to gather food from the kitchen, indicating they would be retreating to Athos’ rooms for dinner. Mildly surprised but grateful, the two men did as he asked and then set out once more, eager to not only hear what Athos had found but to confirm that Porthos was no worse for his day alone.

 

When Athos pushed open the door to his room, he was pleased to see Porthos sitting at the table, gently working to clean his dagger with his uninjured arm. Aramis and Treville followed him in, the former heading directly for the large Musketeer, intent on checking his wound. While he did so, Athos and Treville laid out the food they’d brought, the older Musketeer augmenting their repast with a couple bottles of wine from his personal stock. Once Aramis had satisfied himself that Porthos was doing well, they all sat down to eat.

 

“So, tell me already,” Porthos beseeched between bites of stew. “I’ve spent the whole day by myself, worrying, so don’t make me wait any longer.”

 

Athos looked up from his food, a smile playing on his face at the knowledge that none of them were yet privy to what he’d found out. Setting his bowl back on the table, his hand slipped inside his doublet and he withdrew a piece of parchment, Treville reaching for it before it could be set down. Aramis and Porthos watched as the Captain read the message, folding it up again when he was done. “It’s the Queen’s letter,” he confirmed with a sigh.

 

“The question is, will the King and Queen believe that Rochefort held onto it or will he again twist the facts in his favour?” Aramis wondered out loud.

 

The recovery of the letter was fortuitous, but how they should proceed now that they had it was a different story altogether. The men continued eating in silence for several minutes until it was broken by Athos. “I believe our best chance is to confront Rochefort and convince him that the evidence we have is sufficient for the King to question his loyalty. We may be able to bargain with him to help us clear d’Artagnan’s name in return for our silence.”

 

Treville watched his lieutenant carefully as he mulled over the plan. Aramis and Porthos were both silent as well, but it was obvious they were leaning towards agreeing with Athos’ suggestion. “Alright, let’s try it. But,” the Captain cautioned, “we cannot keep this letter around for too long, lest it either fall into the wrong hands or be used against us. Also, you must be certain that whatever Rochefort proposes permanently proves d’Artagnan’s innocence. We cannot have this rear its ugly head again in the future.”

 

The three men nodded their agreement. “I’m lookin’ forward to havin’ a talk with Rochefort about this,” Porthos stated, a wicked grin on his face.

 

Treville and Athos both glanced at Aramis to see what he thought about Porthos’ involvement. “You’ll keep that arm in a sling for now and let us take the lead on this,” Aramis warned. “I’ll not have you undo my fine needlework.”

 

Treville trusted Aramis’ opinion and understood the men’s need to confront Rochefort together about what he’d done to their fourth. “Very well. I’ll expect a report once you’ve spoken with the Comte,” he advised, rising from the table. Athos stood with him and walked him to the door. “I’ll need to send word to Brigitte soon. It would be best if we were able to bring good news to her in person.”

 

Athos smiled softly at the implication that they could ride out to his sister’s and bring their Gascon home once he’d been cleared. “Yes, sir,” he replied as he closed the door behind the Captain. He returned to sit with his friends, his eyes landing on the parchment that Treville had left, its presence proof of the faith he had in his men.

 

Aramis’ eyes followed as Athos’ fingers closed around the letter and he asked, “Any suggestions about where we should hide that?”

 

Athos played with the parchment absently for several moments, before laying it back down on the table in front of him. “We keep it with us,” he replied, decisively. “And once we’ve cleared d’Artagnan, we destroy it.”

 

Meeting both men’s gazes, Aramis reached for the parchment and, when neither man protested, he slipped it into his boot. He and Porthos both knew that Athos would take the lead in the coming confrontation with Rochefort and they couldn’t risk having him discovered with the letter in his possession. Athos gave him a nod of thanks which Aramis returned, and the two turned their attention back to Porthos.

 

“What?” the large man asked when he noticed that he’d become the centre of their focus.

 

“You were wounded and are still recovering,” Athos stated, rising to help the other man to his feet.

 

Aramis went to Porthos’ other side and grasped his upper arm, tugging slightly to get him to stand. “And I would wager that you spent most of the day out of bed, worrying and waiting for us to return.”

 

“But it’s still early,” Porthos protested as he was guided to the bed. “The sun only set a little while ago.”

 

“Hmm,” Athos hummed as he pushed his friend to sit on the edge of the bed, already kneeling to remove his boots. At his head, Aramis was manoeuvering Porthos out of his shirt, a somewhat more painful process as his injured shoulder was jostled, reawakening the ache within it.

 

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” Porthos tried once more as Athos lifted his legs onto the bed, Aramis working to deftly turn the large man’s body so he could lay down.

 

Aramis turned a serious look on his friend, allowing all the concern he had for the man to bleed through, “We know that you don’t need a nursemaid but, if you’re to be well enough to accompany us to collect d’Artagnan, you need to rest now, while you can. The ride will be uncomfortable enough as it is.”

 

Porthos glanced from Aramis’ face to Athos’ and saw the same level of worry reflected in the older man’s eyes. With a soft huff, he agreed, “Fine, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep yet.”

 

Aramis smiled as he said, “That’s fine. I’ll just sit here with you for a little while and read, shall I?” At Porthos’ nod, Aramis picked up the book that sat on Athos’ bedside table, glancing briefly at the title before allowing it to open, reading from the first passage that appeared.

 

Athos retreated to his chair at the table and listened to Aramis’ soft, even tones, lulling their friend into a more relaxed state, and making his eyelids grow heavy. Aramis continued to read even after Porthos’ eyes had closed, his breaths evening out with sleep, and Athos sipped at his wine, comfortable to let the medic’s voice roll over him. When he stopped, Aramis carefully closed the book without a sound, glancing at Athos who raised his glass in salute of a job well done. They both knew that Porthos would have pushed himself to stay awake, setting back his recovery as a result; fortunately, he was never able to keep his eyes open for long when one of them read to him, and it was an almost guaranteed method of coaxing the man to get the sleep he so desperately needed.

 

Aramis smiled back at Athos before standing to remove his weapons and doublet, preparing to sleep as well. He resumed his protective position at Porthos’ bedside, as he had the previous night, and closed his eyes while Athos looked on. Scrubbing a hand across his face, Athos conceded to himself that he would need to get some sleep that night as well, not trusting himself to be sharp enough to deal with Rochefort the following day after two nights of minimal rest. With a resigned sign, he placed his wine glass on the table and lifted his feet onto the chair next to him, settling as comfortably as he was able before closing his eyes. As he drifted off, his last thoughts were of d’Artagnan, hope burning like a small flame beneath closed lids as his anticipation of bringing the boy home grew.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Athos pulled away, Rochefort caught sight of the fury in the man’s eyes and he jerked back, suddenly feeling the urgent need to be away from the Musketeer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos on the last chapter. One more chapter without d'Artagnan but I promise he's back in the next one. Hope you enjoy!

As was his habit, Athos was up before either of his friends and he moved around the room quietly, taking care of his morning ablutions. Once Aramis was awake, he would go to the garrison to speak with the Captain and make arrangements to speak with Rochefort, as well as bringing breakfast back for his friends. The medic awoke as he was securing his weapons around his waist, standing up and stretching before running a hand through his unruly curls. Joining Athos at the table so they wouldn’t disturb their still sleeping friend, the older Musketeer explained his morning plans, Aramis nodding in agreement.

 

He left the room quietly, making his way outside and relishing the crispness of the morning air, not yet polluted with the scent of unwashed bodies and emptied chamber pots. While his friends believed him to be fondest of the evening hours when he would while away the time drinking, his favorite time of day was actually the morning, when the new day brought promise and hope of something better. He was certain that his brothers would be surprised by his sentiment, deciding long ago that he was far too much of a realist for his own good, and Athos was secretly pleased that he could still find something in the world to be optimistic about, remembering well the days after Anne’s hanging when all hope had eluded him; he had fallen into an incredibly dark place and was loathe to ever return there.

 

The garrison was still quiet, the first few early risers sitting outside as Serge began serving breakfast and he nodded to the familiar faces as he passed by on his way to Treville’s office. Unsurprisingly, the Captain was already awake and waiting for him when he knocked and Athos scrutinized his commanding officer carefully, aware that the events of the prior weeks had been difficult on Treville as well. He was pleased to find that, for once, the weariness that seemed to have settled on the man had lightened, and the Captain had a spark in his eyes that had been absent for the last short while.

 

“Good morning, Captain,” Athos greeted as he stood in front of the man.

 

Treville waved a hand, indicating for him to relax. They had known each other too long to stand on formality, especially when it was only the two of them. “How was your night?” he asked.

 

Athos’ lips quirked into a fond smile, “Despite his protests, Porthos was asleep shortly after you left. Aramis is happy that his wound is healing well and should be fine to be present during our conversation with the Comte.”

 

The Captain nodded in satisfaction, knowing that Porthos would not have allowed himself to be left behind and pleased that he would not be placing his health in jeopardy to do so. “I have sent a message to the palace, requesting Rochefort’s presence at the ruins outside the city wall this afternoon to discuss a matter of the utmost urgency.” Athos lifted a brow at the man’s words. With a rueful smile, Treville explained, “I may have left him with the impression that I have news regarding d’Artagnan.”

 

Athos couldn’t help but offer a soft grin as he gave a nod of appreciation for his commander’s actions. “Will you be joining us?”

 

Treville shook his head. “I think it’s best that you go in my place,” he paused for a moment, “with my regrets, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Athos pursed his lips in thought. It was a dangerous game they were playing and there was no guarantee that Rochefort would allow himself to be intimidated. If the situation blew up in their faces Treville, at least, would have a modicum of deniability, hopefully allowing him to remain free and in charge of the garrison so he could lobby on their behalf, if required. Athos replaced the hat on his head as he prepared to leave.

 

“Athos, be careful and good luck,” the Captain called to him before he’d left. Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement as he exited, heading directly for the stairs that led down to the courtyard. Now that they had a time and place, he was eager to return to his friends so they could prepare and he moved swiftly to the kitchens to collect a basket of food before heading back to his rooms.

 

Aramis and Porthos were both awake when he returned, and they greeted him from their seats at the table, Porthos grumbling quietly, “’Bout time. I’m starvin’.”

 

Athos’ eyes lit with amusement at his friend’s predictable nature, pleased to see that his appetite had returned in full force. As they doled out the food, both men looked expectantly at their leader, waiting to be informed of the plan. Athos sat first and had a bite, encouraging his friends to do likewise, before he began to speak. “Treville has sent a message to Rochefort, asking for a meeting at the old ruins outside the city. We’ll be there in his stead as the Captain will be unavoidably detained.”

 

Porthos gave a nod as he chewed, happy to have something to look forward to. “What time?”

 

“Noon. I suggest that we arrive an hour earlier just in case the Comte’s intentions aren’t entirely honorable,” Athos replied. None of them expected Rochefort to arrive alone and it was not entirely improbable that the man might have plans of his own to harm the Captain, the areas outside of the city notorious for their criminal activities.

 

They finished their meal and then dressed, checking their weapons before returning to the garrison to collect their horses. Being in the saddle would pull on Porthos’ wounded shoulder but it would still be easier than making him cover the distance on foot. Besides, they’d left themselves plenty of time so the horses could be walked, easing the strain on the large man’s injury. Aramis had wanted to bind Porthos’ arm again, but a harsh look from his friend had the medic backing away, hands in the air in mock supplication. Aramis wasn’t happy about it but understood Porthos’ need to have both hands free, none of them knowing exactly what kind of danger they might be walking into.

 

Athos’ suggestion to arrive early proved unnecessary, Rochefort reaching the meeting place only a few minutes prior to noon, accompanied by two Red Guards as was the usual complement when travelling outside the city walls. Aramis was ensconced in a high vantage point above them, providing additional protection to his friends below. When Rochefort spotted Athos, he motioned to his guards to stay back, walking forward to meet the man in the open space where he waited, Porthos also standing well back from the older Musketeer.

 

“Athos,” Rochefort sneered in mock politeness, “what an unexpected surprise. I thought I was to meet your Captain here today.” He looked around confirming that the man he referred to was absent.

 

Athos inclined his head in greeting, “Captain Treville sends his regrets and me in his place.”

 

The Comte observed him for several moments before speaking, “You have news of d’Artagnan?”

 

“I do,” Athos confirmed, his tone still congenial. “We have a witness who will testify that you were behind d’Artagnan’s kidnapping. Further, we know about the letter from the Queen to her brother that you supposedly gave to the Spanish Ambassador.” He watched Rochefort carefully for any signs of reaction as he ended. “How do you think her Majesty would react to find out it’s been in your possession all along?”

 

To his credit, the Comte didn’t show any outward response to Athos’ accusations, nor did he try to refute the man’s claims.  “Suppose that what you say is true and, let’s suppose further that I care. How does any of this help d’Artagnan? The evidence against him is still irrefutable.”

 

Athos gave a nod, conceding the other man’s point. “I don’t know who really murdered Perales but you’ll bring him to justice if you don’t want your secrets aired before the King. We may not have enough to clear d’Artagnan’s name but we certainly have more than enough to lose your hard-won favour with Louis.” Athos’ eyes narrowed as he gambled, “And I can’t imagine the Queen will look kindly on being betrayed by one of her oldest friends.” He let the words drop and fell silent, praying that his instincts had guided him correctly and that Rochefort held the Queen’s opinion in high regard, just as he held the King’s.

 

Rochefort’s blue eyes were now darting around and Athos could see a sheen of sweat dotting the man’s hairline as he considered the offer Athos had placed before him. He cleared his throat as he prepared to speak, his words low and hoarse from the fear that now gripped him, “How can I be certain that you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”

 

Athos gave him a look of contempt that only a noble could perfect, “I am a man of my word, Rochefort. If the true murderer is revealed, I promise that none of this will ever reach their Majesties’ ears.”

 

Silence reigned for several seconds more until Rochefort gave a jerky nod in reply, Athos forcing himself not to visibly sigh in relief at his success. “There is some urgency, as you can imagine. I expect a resolution within three days’ time.” Athos stated, not wanting to give the Comte too much time, lest he change his mind, and aware of the fact that Treville would need to send word shortly to his sister regarding the state of affairs in Paris.

 

A last sharp nod from Rochefort had the man turning on his heel, ready to depart, but Athos’ hand on his upper arm stopped him, the Musketeer leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “If any harm comes to d’Artagnan, please know that I will have nothing to lose and I will drive the breath from your body myself, regardless of the consequences.” As Athos pulled away, Rochefort caught sight of the fury in the man’s eyes and he jerked back, suddenly feeling the urgent need to be away from the Musketeer.

 

Above, Aramis watched as the Comte retreated, the two Red Guards falling in behind him. Porthos was already moving forward to stand at Athos’ side, hand now cradling the elbow of his injured arm, and the sharpshooter felt safe enough to make his way down to his friends. While Athos was normally inscrutable, his expression was unquestionably satisfied and Aramis’ face broke out in a broad smile, Porthos matching him, as he approached his friends, clasping a hand briefly on the older man’s shoulder. “It worked?” he confirmed, receiving a nod in reply.

 

Porthos let out a loud laugh, the tension of the past few days releasing as they now plainly saw an end to d’Artagnan’s troubles in sight. As one, they moved toward their horses, Aramis replacing his harquebus in the holster attached to his saddle. The three men were visibly lighter as they wheeled their horses around, moving in the direction of the Musketeer garrison, eager to share their success with the Captain. 

* * *

The physician should have returned to his office by now, but the pull of strong brandy was too much to resist and he found himself once more at its sweet mercy, swallowing one mouthful after another until the world around him blurred, giving him a semblance of peace that sobriety could not. He only had two days left to settle his accounts and had no more means with which to do so now, than a week ago when he’d initially received the ultimatum. He’d known that gambling was a bad idea, but when his dear wife had passed, it was the only solace he found, throwing himself into the activity with a fervour that could only be called an obsession, idling the nights away at various card games both in his hometown and in the surrounding ones. Luck had been fickle and he’d begun losing – a lot. So much, in fact, that he’d been ripe pickings for a local lender who preyed on the weak-willed and desperate. At first, he only borrowed what he could comfortably pay back, but as his losing streak continued, his need for additional loans grew until he could no longer see a way of ever earning enough to pay back what he owed.

 

The threat to his physical well-being had been terrifying and clear, leaving no doubt in his mind that he would not be long for this earth once the men were finished with him. Resigned to his fate, he’d turned to drinking, running up a tab in the local tavern which he knew was another debt that would be outstanding at the time of his death. When the three rough looking men entered the dimly lit establishment, he spared them nothing more than a glance, their entrance a minor distraction from the focused drinking he was engaged in. It wasn’t until one of the men arrived at his table, knocking against it with one hip and nearly spilling the amber liquid in his glass, that he brought red-rimmed and bleary eyes upwards to meet the man’s flinty gaze.

 

“You seen this man?” the man asked, holding up a piece of parchment that held the image of a man. Squinting, the physician could make out the outline of a man’s face, the strong chin and jawbone framed by long dark hair, and he started with the realization that the visage was familiar to him.

 

Licking his lips and working hard to keep the slurred edge from his voice, he asked, “Who is he?”

 

The man’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at the drunk, considering for a moment how much information to share. “He’s a murderer. My friends and I want to return him to Paris to hang for his crime.”

 

The physician’s eyes darted to the man’s companions, sizing them up as he processed the man’s words. Bounty hunters, he concluded. About to share what he knew, he paused as it occurred to him that this fugitive likely carried a price on his head. Had his circumstances been different, he never would have considered meddling with these men, but since he had a literal death sentence facing him in two days, he had nothing left to lose. “What’s it worth to you if I can tell you where to find him?”

 

The man looked over his shoulder, motioning for his companions to join him. The three men now surrounded the table where the physician sat and he calmly took another drink from his glass, understanding that they were trying to intimidate him. The first man he’d spoken with leaned forward, a glare on his face as he hissed, “If you know where this man can be found, you’d best give ‘im up before things turn out badly for you.”

 

The physician snorted in reply, the bounty hunter jerking back in surprise at the reaction. Plastering a grim smile on his face, he replied, “I am a desperate man who has nothing and I expect to be dead in two days’ time at someone else’s hands. The only thing that will persuade me to share what I know is the means to pay off my debts so I might live past the end of the week. If you’re unwilling to pay for my information, then by all means, carry out your threats. You’ll only save someone else the trouble.”

 

The three exchanged a quiet look, weighing the physician’s words and then the bounty hunter pulled out a chair and sat down. “Alright, what do you want?”

 

The physician measured the men in front of him, knowing that the bounty must be fairly rich for them to be considering his demand. “Pay me a quarter of what he’s worth to you and I’ll draw you a map and even tell you his weaknesses.”

 

“Twenty percent,” the man countered and, after a few seconds of thought, the physician nodded. “Half now and half after we’ve confirmed that your information is good.”

 

The physician shook his head adamantly, “No, I want it all know or you can bugger off. Nothin’ to lose, remember.”

 

The bounty hunter’s jaw clenched angrily but he reached for his purse, counting out a quantity of coin that made the physician’s heart jump as he realized that the money would not only cover his debt but leave him some extra. He felt a momentary pang of guilt and mercilessly quashed the feeling; there was no longer anyone who cared enough about him to be either proud or ashamed of his actions, even though selling out this man’s location would certainly have made his wife cringe. Scooping up the coins and adding them to his own purse with fingers made thick and clumsy by the brandy, he leaned forward and gave them directions to the Trémaux estate, giving them the added bonus of letting them know the man they sought was injured, his head and ribs both points of weakness.

 

When he’d finished, the man gave a short word of thanks, rising from the table and taking his two companions with him as they left the tavern. The physician finished his glass, deciding against ordering another, buoyed for once by hope that he might still be able to salvage his pitiful life. Swaying and staggering, he navigated his way around the tables and other patrons, tripping slightly on the step as he exited onto the street. By the height of the sun, it was late afternoon and, since he was in condition to work, he aimed for home. As he passed an alley, he was shocked to be pulled nearly off his feet, a pair of strong arms flinging him from the street and against a building in the narrow lane. His balance gone, he slid down the building to land unceremoniously on his backside, his mind to slow to understand what was happening. Before he could even look up to identify his attacker, a flash of steel came at him and, moments later, he sat slumped against the building as his lifeblood poured from the gaping wound at his neck. The bounty hunter reached forward, retrieving the man’s purse, the three men grinning widely as they headed for their horses, intent on finding the fugitive they sought.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man grinned humourlessly, “I am the bounty hunter who will collect the price on your head, boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the continued encouraging comments and for not sending hate mail, given d'Artagnan's absence from the last two chapters. He's back now and I hope you enjoy.

 

It had been six days since d’Artagnan had made his escape and the men were on edge, waiting anxiously for some indication that Rochefort had held up his end of the bargain. Whether they liked it or not, a message would need to be sent to Treville’s sister the following day and, if no resolution was forthcoming, the message would be to run. As those thoughts consumed Athos’ brain, he couldn’t help but be transported back to the night when he’d asked d’Artagnan to run for the first time. The look on the Gascon’s face had been a mix of trepidation and disappointment, and Athos had nearly withdrawn his request in an attempt to wipe the expression from the boy’s face. But it had been for the best, giving the three of them the precious time they needed to find the true killer. Granted, the solution they’d found was not quite as planned, but it would hopefully produce the same result and clear the Gascon’s name.

 

They’d eaten their evening meal at the garrison that night and still sat outside, nursing their glasses of wine as things quieted down around them, the men’s training finished for the day and many of the Musketeers retiring or leaving to find entertainment elsewhere. The sound of hoof beats reached them before the rider entered the courtyard and they were surprised to see a Red Guard dismount, making his way unerringly up the stairs to Treville’s office. Without exchanging a word, the inseparables rose from their seats and followed in the man’s wake, boldly entering behind the guardsman as he presented himself to their Captain.

 

“A message from the palace,” the man said as he handed the parchment to Treville. With a nod, the Captain excused the man and waited until he’d left and Athos had closed the door behind him before he opened the missive.

 

“I’ve been summoned to appear immediately in front of the King. It seems there is news regarding d’Artagnan,” Treville explained.

 

The note was ambiguous enough that it generated a spike of fear in each man’s heart, since it was just as possible that d’Artagnan had been found and apprehended, as it was that the Ambassador’s true killer had been identified. The Captain slipped the parchment into his doublet and reached for his hat, securing it solidly as he nodded toward the door, “What are you waiting for?”

 

Athos opened the door and led the way out, the men making short work of saddling their horses for the ride to the palace. For once, the King didn’t make them stand on ceremony, waiting for hours before he deigned to speak with them, and they were led inside almost immediately. Rochefort was already there and Treville gave a short nod of greeting before standing in front of the King, bowing before him, his three men mimicking his actions behind him.

 

“Treville, Rochefort has news and was insistent that you be advised tonight,” the King beamed, his pride evident by the smile on his face.

 

The Comte turned his attention away from the King as he explained, “My men apprehended a man tonight who admitted to the murder of Ambassador Perales. Apparently, he was a displaced countryman who found your man’s weapons discarded in a back alley and he saw the opportunity to kill the Ambassador without having any blame attached to him.”

 

Treville’s eyes narrowed at the Comte’s statement. “That is certainly good news, especially since d’Artagnan was innocent as I had stated all along. With your permission, I will go and question this man. I assume he’s at the Chatelet?”

 

Rochefort’s face turned apologetic as he replied, “Sadly, the man resisted and was killed while he was being transported. It was only luck that we got his confession before he passed.”

 

“That was indeed fortunate,” the Captain replied dryly. Turning to face the King, he asked, “Does this mean that d’Artagnan’s no longer a fugitive?”

 

The King’s head bobbed in agreement, “Yes, although he may be charged with desertion if he doesn’t return to the regiment soon. I trust that won’t be an issue?”

 

Treville smiled to himself at the King’s perceptiveness, not outright accusing him but letting him know that he assumed the Musketeers’ complicity in the Gascon’s disappearance. “I certainly hope not, your Majesty. My men and I will put forth every effort to find the boy and return to him to duty post haste.” It was an ambiguous enough answer that seemed to satisfy the royal while not admitting any wrongdoing, and the King waved a hand in dismissal.

 

With another bow, the Musketeers withdrew, Rochefort following several steps later. When the door had closed behind them, Athos slowed his pace, allowing the others to outdistance him while the Comte drew abreast. “Do not think that I will be quick to forget these threats, Athos,” he hissed.

 

With an inherent calmness, Athos responded, “I don’t think there’s any chance of that, Rochefort. After all, I take any attack against my brothers very seriously.” With a tip of his hat, the Musketeer turned and followed the others, content to leave Rochefort fuming at having been outmanoeuvered.

 

The hour was late by the time they returned to the garrison and, as they dismounted, Treville gave them all a hard look. “Get some rest tonight,” holding up a hand to stave off any protests, he continued, “that’s an order. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow to visit my sister. There have been reports of bandits along the road and I’ll need men I can trust to accompany me.” The three ducked their heads in acknowledgement as the Captain strode off, content that the following day would have them reunited with their missing fourth. 

* * *

d’Artagnan had surprised himself by falling back asleep after his conversation with Madame Trémaux. When he woke, he felt restless and, despite the continued ache in his ribs and head, he was desperate to get out of bed. The process of getting up was made somewhat easier by the fact that he was still propped partly upright by several pillows and he braced himself with his arms on the mattress, pushing himself further forward, the motion pulling a gasp from him at the sharp pain in his flank. Flipping the blanket off, he shimmied his body until his legs dangled off the side of the bed. He grimaced as he looked down the length of his body, just now discovering that he was naked, save for his braies. The thought made him flush with embarrassment as he realized it was likely Trémaux who’d undressed him. Pushing the thought aside, he scanned the room, looking for his clothes and spotting them neatly folded in a pile on a chair by the large picture window.

 

He attempted to draw a deeper breath, stopping at the stab of pain in his side, the hitched inhale causing him to want to cough and he swallowed desperately to prevent it. When the need to cough had passed, he took a careful breath, and then pushed up to his feet. The change in elevation made his head pound and for several seconds, his vision dimmed. When it had cleared, he set his sights on the chair that stood across the room and gingerly took his first step, pleased when his legs held him without too much difficulty. He placed a hand on the table that sat next to the chair and braced himself as he slowly bent forward enough to snag his clothes so he could sit. Moments later he was sitting in the chair, his breathing still labored and shallow but a look of satisfaction adorned his face at having successfully made it there on his own.

 

Dressing while favoring broken ribs was a challenge that d’Artagnan hoped never to have to face again, and he’d managed to pull on his breeches and was struggling with his shirt when a knock on the door startled him. As he was deciding what to do, the door opened and Madame Trémaux entered, carrying another tray of food. She was surprised by the empty bed, spying him almost immediately by the window and she put down the food she carried before walking over to help. “Denys,” she scolded, “you shouldn’t be out of bed.” As she talked, she deftly slipped the shirt over his head, helping him thread his arms into the sleeves. “How are you feeling?”

 

Her expression was full of genuine concern and, for a moment, d’Artagnan was reminded of another who’d looked at him in the same way. A flash of confusion showed on his face as the memory disappeared as quickly as it had come and the woman placed a hand on his shoulder at his reaction. “Is everything alright,” she asked.

 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan dredged up a smile, feeling guilty about having worried her. “You just reminded me of someone.”

 

Trémaux’s face lit up at his words, “”That’s wonderful. Does that mean your memory is returning?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head as he answered, “I don’t know. There was a glimpse of a face and then it was gone. I’ve no idea who she is.”

 

Trémaux made sure she kept smiling as she tried to reassure the young man, “I’m certain it will all come back to you in time. Now, I’ve brought lunch. Would you like to eat here?” d’Artagnan gave a nod and she rose from her chair, bringing the tray over and seating herself across from him. As she placed a plate in front of him, she noticed how closely he was observing her. Meeting his gaze, she said, “You have more questions for me. Please, feel free to ask and I will answer what I can.”

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head shyly for a moment at how obvious he’d been, but his face was serious when he looked back up at her. “I realize that I don’t even know your name.”

 

Trémaux gave a small laugh as she placed a hand on his and gave it a gently squeeze, “I am Brigitte Trémaux, your cousin, remember?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a nod, recalling what she’d told him earlier about being family. He ate slowly as he listened to her explain about her husband’s work, and that he had graciously offered to come and help out while her husband was travelling. Next, she told him about how Gilles had praised his skills with the horses and how sad they would all be to see him leave. d’Artagnan listened attentively, focusing on taking careful bites in between measured breaths, finding it a challenge to manage both while his ribs ached.  

 

When they’d finished eating, d’Artagnan made another request, “Would it be alright if I went outside for a little while?” Brigitte looked torn, recognizing the boy’s need to get away from the confines of the room in which he’d laid for several days, but still worried about him being seen by too many of the staff. Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and she hurriedly called, “Come in.”

 

Gilles stood in the doorway and his face broke into a broad grin when he saw d’Artagnan out of bed and sitting upright. Striding forward, he said, “Denys, it’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

 

“Better, thank you,” d’Artagnan answered politely as he racked his brain, trying to place the man who so obviously knew him.

 

Brigitte saved him by introducing Gilles, “Denys, this is Gilles. Remember, I spoke to you about him. You probably don’t recall, but he was the one who found you and brought you back to the house after your accident.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a nod, “Thank you, Gilles. I’m grateful for your help.”

 

“No need for thanks. If that hound hadn’t gotten out, you wouldn’t have been thrown from the horse in the first place,” Gilles explained.

 

“Gilles, Denys was just asking if he could spend some time outside. Would you be willing to accompany him?” Brigitte asked.

 

“Of course,” Gilles replied eagerly. “It’s a warm day, but I think you’ll want your boots before we go.”

 

d’Artagnan correctly read the amusement in the man’s eyes as he teased, and the Gascon smiled at the comment, leaning over to reach for his boots, but stopping abruptly at the pain that flared in his head and side. Gilles was moving immediately and he crouched down in front of the boy, pushing him back upright slowly with a hand on one shoulder as his other hand reached for the boots. “How about you just sit there and I’ll handle these,” he suggested.

 

d’Artagnan gave him a grateful nod, not yet able to speak as he battled to control his pain. Gilles eased the young man’s feet into his boots and then helped him stand, holding his arms for several seconds as his eyes closed against the dizziness. Trading concerned looks with Madame Trémaux he asked, “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes popped open, a determined look on his face, “I’m fine. Please, I just want to get out of this room for a while.”

 

Brigitte saw the need in his face and nodded reluctantly, “Promise me you won’t go far and you’ll turn back if you need to.” d’Artagnan gave her a disarming smile of thanks and Brigitte was reminded of her brother’s words about how much trouble his men could charm their way into. “Alright then, go. I expect you back in no more than an hour.”

 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan breathed out softly and Brigitte nodded in acknowledgement, watching as Gilles led the way out, the young man trailing carefully behind him.

 

d’Artagnan had wanted to see where he’d been hurt, hoping it might pull some further memories from his fractured mind, but Gilles had been hesitant to allow him to walk such a distance. The young man’s pleading had convinced the older man to at least begin walking in that direction, after providing an additional promise that he would turn back if it became too much. Gilles kept their pace slow, concerned at the guarded inhales the boy was taking, not missing the breathless quality of his voice when he tried to speak and walk at the same time. No matter how slow their pace, d’Artagnan was determined to cover the distance to the manège and stubbornly pushed himself to continue forward, happily bracing himself against a fencepost when they arrived.

 

Gilles pointed to a newly-repaired section of fencing as he explained, “That’s where you landed. You’d been working with one of the newer horses when Madame Trémaux’s dog startled it.” His eyes clouded over for a moment with the memory of the young man’s body lying motionless, the hound licking at the blood that trickled from his temple. “It could have been much worse, I suppose.” d’Artagnan nodded absently as he looked around, willing his memories to return, but only succeeding in making the throbbing in his head worse. “Do you remember anything?”

 

“No,” d’Artagnan breathed out, disappointment clear in the slump of his shoulders as he continued to cradle his ribs with a hand.

 

“It can’t be comfortable to be moving around with two broken ribs,” he motioned at the boy’s flank. “Perhaps we should head back so you can rest?”

 

d’Artagnan seemed ready to argue but he gave a small nod and pushed away from the fence, beginning the trek back to the house. They were within 50 feet of the door when they heard the sound of approaching riders and both men stopped to look at the gate. The Gascon was gripped by an unaccountable fear as they waited but Gilles’ posture was calm and curious, suggesting there was no need for alarm. d’Artagnan’s body ached and he motioned to Gilles toward the house, indicating his intention to return. Gilles gave him a quick nod before returning his gaze to the courtyard entrance, and the young man moved away, shocked at how much the short outing had drained him. In addition to the relentless ache that consumed him, he was feeling increasingly lightheaded as his body reacted to the lowered levels of air he was taking in.

 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs that led to the front door, he stopped, needing to collect his waning energy before ascending. As he leaned against the handrail, he looked back to see a half-dozen riders approaching. The men stopped in front of Gilles and he could hear the men talking although they were too far away to make out any of the words. A half-minute passed and he watched one of the riders point to him, Gilles looking over his shoulder and then turning back to the man he’d been speaking with, shaking his head.

 

As d’Artagnan watched, one of the riders pulled a pistol and shot Gilles, the man dropping to his knees with a howl as he gripped his thigh tightly. The young man found himself trembling with the shock of the brutal act and was frozen in place, one part of him wanting to move forward to help Gilles while the other part was telling him to run away. Seconds later three of the men dismounted, two of them walking toward him and he could hear a strangled shout from Gilles, which was abruptly cut off as the third man backhanded him, making him topple sideways to the ground.

 

d’Artagnan gasped as Gilles fell and his hand automatically moved to his flank, trying to push away the pain that sat there. A voice from the doorway called to him and he saw Brigitte running toward him. In a panic, he shook his head and waved a hand at her to go back, but she was beside him seconds later, pushing something into his hands. It was a sword and d’Artagnan gripped it automatically, not stopping to question why it felt so right in his hand. “Please, go back inside,” d’Artagnan pleaded, pushing the woman behind him as he turned to face the approaching men, his earlier weakness temporarily overcome by anger and adrenaline. He was aware that Brigitte had moved to stand two steps higher, but had stopped there and d’Artagnan was resolute in his desire to keep her safe, standing off against the approaching bandits. One of the men drew his sword, placing a hand on his companion’s chest to stop his forward movement, as he stepped forward to engage the fugitive they’d come for.

 

“Come with us now and no one else needs to get hurt,” the man called.

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in confusion at the man’s words. “Do I know you?” he asked.

 

The man let out a mirthless chuckle, “No, but we know you and we’re takin’ you back to Paris.”

 

The man’s comment was meaningless and d’Artagnan could hear Brigitte’s words behind him, begging him not to listen. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

 

The man didn’t wait any longer, simply lunging forward to swipe at the Gascon, d’Artagnan barely managing to bring his blade up to block the strike, the power of it reverberating through him. Another blow had him parrying again, gasping in pain at the strength of the hit. No matter how unwavering his will, his body was already beginning to forsake him, his flagging strength failing as it drained from him like water through a sieve. Trying to buy himself a little time, he took a couple steps sideways as he asked, “Who are you?”

 

The man grinned humourlessly, “I am the bounty hunter who will collect the price on your head, boy.”

 

“Bounty?” d’Artagnan echoed, his attention dropping for a moment until a cry of alarm from Brigitte had his arm rising instinctively to block the sword aimed at his injured side. The blade he held seemed to be getting heavier and d’Artagnan realized that it was not the steel but his arm that was the issue, his muscles protesting loudly at the effort he was forcing from them. His attacker had slowed his attack and now seemed to be staring at him as he circled calmly, waiting for his strength to abandon him.

 

d’Artagnan took another faltering step back, trying to increase the distance between them, but he stumbled, going down to one knee, a low sound of pain escaping his throat as his injuries protested. The man was moving forward again, seeing his prey weak enough to be overcome and d’Artagnan battled to stand but his legs weren’t cooperating. Two steps later the man was within striking range and, without thought, d’Artagnan’s left hand flew upwards, catching the man’s sword arm as it arced above his head, intending to strike him with the pommel. Mere moments later d’Artagnan’s hand was already shaking as he refused to let go of the man’s arm, his side shrieking with the agony of the hold he was trying to maintain. Shakily, he lifted his right arm and brought his blade up, driving it into the man’s stomach. His attacker fell forward on top of him, and d’Artagnan was unable to brace himself as they fell to the ground, the force of the man’s weight landing on him pulling another weak cry from his chest.

 

d’Artagnan knew he was finished, his body too weak and in too much pain to even move the man’s body  and he waited, resigned, hoping that the others would at least come for him quickly so he didn’t have to endure laying beneath the dead man for long. He startled when the weight that held him was suddenly shifted, Brigitte rolling the man’s body off him and tugging at d’Artagnan’s arm. He blinked at her in confusion, not understanding the words coming from her mouth, but seeing her lips moving nonetheless. Somehow, she managed to get him to his feet and he found himself leaning on her heavily as she dragged him into the house. He caught a glimpse of the other men moving toward them as they passed through the doorway, Brigitte pushing it closed behind her but having no time to lock or barricade it afterwards.

 

The world was tilting heavily now and d’Artagnan swallowed against the nausea that churned in his belly, focusing on nothing more than placing one foot in front of the other. His awareness dimmed for several seconds and his next conscious thought had him looking at a set of stairs, Brigitte trying to get him to take the first step downwards. Again, he struggled to comply, still leaning on the slight woman but also placing a hand on the wall beside him to further steady his descent. At the bottom of the stairs, he lost the battle against his upset stomach, folding forward as he retched helplessly while Brigitte tugged at a solid wood door. d’Artagnan absently thought he should try to help her, but the message didn’t seem to make it to his muscles and he watched her dumbly as she finally got the door open before pulling him inside.

 

d’Artagnan knew she was trying to be gentle but he almost slipped out of her arms as she propped him against the wall, disentangling herself from his hold to pull the door closed behind them before barring it. Brigitte turned from the door with a sigh of relief and watched as the young man’s slid down the wall to sit on his backside, eyes rolling back in his head as he lost consciousness.

 

When awareness returned, the pain in his body almost overwhelmed his senses and his breath hitched uncomfortably, his hand moving instinctively to his side to quiet the ache. His hand was caught in another’s and d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed as he felt the soft skin. Eyes fluttering open had Brigitte moving closer, the relief evident on her face as she looked down at the injured man who she’d managed to lay out on his back. d’Artagnan blinked muzzily up at her as his senses slowly returned, cataloging the weight that seemed to sit on his chest, making it difficult to take a proper breath, and the cold that seemed to be seeping into his bones. “I’m glad you’re awake,” Brigitte said, startling the young man as his mind had already begun to drift elsewhere. “How are you feeling?”

 

d’Artagnan was quiet for several seconds as he considered what to share, his eyes roaming around, taking in their surroundings. He knew he’d lost some time, but he had a vague recollection of running away, making him doubt that they were in any position to do anything about his array of complaints. “Fine,” he finally answered, making motions to sit up.

 

Brigitte placed a hand on his chest to stop him, alarm clear on her face, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

d’Artagnan grunted, but didn’t stop in his efforts, “Need to sit up. Ground’s freezing.”

 

With a rueful expression, Brigitte realized the truth of his words and shifted her hands to help pull him up, guiding him so he was leaning against a wall. d’Artagnan gave a short nod of thanks as he caught his breath. “Where are we?” he asked, eyes still closed against the pain that movement had reawakened.

 

“In the cellar,” Brigitte replied. “It’s the only place that has a solid enough door for us to hide behind.” She looked uncertain now as she explained, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

d’Artagnan opened his eyes at her apology, reaching a hand to squeeze hers, “There’s no need for apology. Your quick thinking saved my life.” Stopping to draw another breath, he asked, “Do you have any idea who those men were?”

 

Brigitte bit her lip nervously, noting the desperation in the young man’s eyes and concluding that he needed to know the truth, if only to be able to deal with whatever happened next. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” she began. “Your name is not Denys, it is d’Artagnan. You are a Musketeer under the command of my brother, Captain Treville.” She paused, detesting the idea that he would have to relive the events of his downfall, without any recollection of anything that had happened to him. “You were accused and convicted of killing a man, but my brother is convinced of your innocence. Three of your brothers helped you escape the night before your execution and sent you here to hide until they could clear your name.”

 

d’Artagnan’s expression was stricken and Brigitte watched helplessly at the turmoil of emotions that her words had wrought. Squeezing his hand, she tried to reassure him, “d’Artagnan, you are a good man. If my brother had not thought so, he would not have aided your escape nor sent you here to me. You must believe me.”

 

The Gascon gave a small nod, clearly overwhelmed by the news that he was a convicted murderer. “That’s why those men are after me,” he breathed out and Brigitte nodded in reply.

 

She was startled to see him try to gain his feet, bracing himself on the wall behind him. As she stood with him, she asked, “What are you doing?”

 

He met her eyes and she was shocked by the depth of despair that pooled there. “If I give myself up, they’ll leave you alone. You’ll be safe.”

 

“No,” she moved to stand in front of the door, blocking his way to the exit. “I do not believe that. These men are cruel and do not care who they hurt. Otherwise, why would they have shot Gilles?” she countered.

 

d’Artagnan felt a pang of guilt at having forgotten about Gilles, but it was not enough to deter him and he moved forward once more, Brigitte still refusing to move. “I have to try. My life is not worth you losing yours.”

 

Brigitte straightened her shoulders at his words and d’Artagnan had a vague recollection of someone else doing the same. “Charles d’Artagnan, I forbid you to give yourself up to these men. Their actions have proven their dishonour and I fear you would not reach Paris alive. We’re better off waiting for my brother to arrive.”

 

He looked at her in puzzlement, “How can you be so certain that he will come?”

 

“Oh, d’Artagnan,” she stepped forward, placing a hand on his cheek. “If you remembered him and your brothers, you would not doubt.” Removing her hand, she went on, “I expected a letter to arrive today or tomorrow at the latest. He will send one of the men from the garrison to deliver it as he always does. When there is no reply, he will get worried and come himself and I have no doubt that he will not be alone. We just have to give him some time.”

 

d’Artagnan still seemed unconvinced, but he asked, “How much time?”

 

“Another day or two; no more than three,” Brigitte replied confidently.

 

The Gascon gave a nod and stepped back from the door, his unsteadiness returning now that the adrenaline had faded. She helped him slide down the floor to sit again, “Do you want to lay down?”

 

“No, the floor’s too cold and it’s easier to breath when I’m sitting up,” he replied. Brigitte frowned at his words but moved to look over the supplies that surrounded them. Most of what was there was various food stuffs, but she found some canvas sacking that could be used as a makeshift blanket. Coaxing d’Artagnan to get up once more, she placed some of the cloth on the ground underneath him before helping the young man sit again, and then covered him with the rest. She watched as he huddled into it, eyes slipping closed again as she looked on with concern, thinking to herself, “Please come quickly, Jean-Armand. I do not know how long he will last.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brigitte gave him a tremulous smile as she nodded. “He and Gilles were walking outside earlier when the men arrived. d’Artagnan was at the bottom of the steps leading to the house when they shot Gilles.” Searching out her brother’s gaze, her voice shook as she explained, “I thought they would kill them both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one!

d’Artagnan had no idea how much time had passed but was woken by the ache in his chest which made him struggle for each breath. His brow furrowed as he tried to recall if it had been this difficult earlier, but his mind was clouded with pain and he couldn’t be certain of anything. He felt a warm weight at his side and rolled his head toward it, seeing Madame Trémaux sitting next to him, asleep. From what he could recall, the woman had been exceedingly kind to him, even risking her own life to save him from the bounty hunters when they’d arrived.

 

Despite what she’d told him earlier, d’Artagnan could not risk putting her life in danger. Bracing himself, he inched away from her slowly, moving cautiously as she adjusted to the lack of his body next to hers, and he tucked the canvas against her side to prevent the cold from seeping in. Standing was more difficult than he’d imagined, his muscles having stiffened while he’d slept. When he was upright, he waited only seconds, forcing himself to move even before his vision had fully cleared, concerned that Brigitte might wake and try to stop him.

 

He unbarred the door and pushed it open slowly, grateful that it swung silently. He stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him, managing only two steps before the dizziness that assaulted him forced him to stop and lean against the wall. As he staggered up the stairs, using the wall to pull himself upwards, he was surprised that they’d been left alone and wondered if he’d missed something while unconscious.

 

At the top of the stairs, he had to sit for a moment, his legs buckling and his vision tunneling once more. As he lifted his head in preparation to stand, he noticed that he was being watched, one of the men from earlier leaning against a doorway across from him. When he saw d’Artagnan look up, he pushed away from where he’d been standing and moved closer to tower over the boy. “Ready to give yourself up?” he asked, clearly reading the young man’s weakened condition.

 

d’Artagnan hardened his gaze as he replied, “I will go with you without protest, as long as you promise that no harm will come to the lady of the house. We will leave immediately, and no one will go down there,” he stated, motioning to where he’d just come from.

 

The bounty hunter looked at him with a hint of amusement and then shrugged, “Fine with me. We don’t have any need for the woman anyway.” With that, he reached down and grabbed the Gascon’s arm, jerking him upright. d’Artagnan swayed alarmingly but the man didn’t give him any time to adjust, pulling him along through the house. The others were in the sitting room, clearly having helped themselves to food and wine from the kitchen. “Look what I found,” the bandit crowed triumphantly, giving another hard tug and then releasing his hold, sending the young man down to his knees, just managing to catch himself on one arm before his upper body hit the floor.

 

One of the men stood and walked closer, looking at d’Artagnan appraisingly as the Gascon’s head hung from his neck, trying to calm his breathing. He glanced back at the other bounty hunter with a raised eyebrow. “Found him at the top of the stairs. Says he’ll come along quietly as long as we leave the woman alone.”

 

The man nodded in acceptance. “Alright.” Turning to the others, he ordered, “Get the horses saddled along with one more for him. We leave as soon as they’re ready.” As the other men exited, he continued to stare at d’Artagnan, crouching down on his haunches in front of the boy. “Led us on a merry chase, you did, but Maillard always gets his man.”

 

Lifting his head to glare at the man, d’Artagnan asked, “Maillard, is that you?”

 

With a wide grin, he answered, “At your service. Bounty hunter extraordinaire and the man who’ll be bringing you back to face the hangman’s noose.” Narrowing his eyes at his prisoner, he noted the wheezing quality of the boy’s breathing. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Got thrown by a horse and broke some ribs,” d’Artagnan replied, hopeful that his condition might earn him some sympathy and gentler treatment at the hands of his captors.

 

“That’s a shame. I’ve ridden with broken ribs before and it’s awfully painful. Good thing you’re a tough Musketeer,” Maillard jeered, his grin turning nasty as he rose to his feet, bending over to pull the Gascon upright as well.

 

Maillard marched him outside where the men were nearly done with the horses, and d’Artagnan’s hands were bound in front of him before he was forced into the saddle, one of the others holding a lead that was attached to his mount. From his position atop the horse, d’Artagnan could see the body of a man lying in a puddle of red, and he hung his head as he realized that it was Gilles. When all the men were ready, Maillard moved to the front of their group, d’Artagnan surrounded on all sides by the remaining riders. Forcing himself to stay upright to ease the strain on his ribs, d’Artagnan allowed his mind to wander, praying that Brigitte was right and her brother would come. It was too late for him but at least no one else would get hurt because of his choices. 

* * *

Treville was unsurprised to find the three inseparables waiting for him when he exited his office and descended the stairs to the courtyard. They were sitting at their usual table, chatting idly, but had clearly been anxiously awaiting his appearance and were standing by the time he joined them. “We’re ready?” he asked, receiving a nod from Athos.

 

“The horses are saddled and waiting,” his lieutenant confirmed.

 

Sharing their anticipation, Treville wasted no time and led the way to the stables to collect their horses. Gathering their reins, they brought the mounts outside and added their weapons and other sundry items to the saddlebags before mounting and quickly setting out. The journey to Madame Trémaux’s could be accomplished in just over half a day, meaning they could be celebrating with the Gascon over dinner that night.

 

The Captain had indicated that they would not be in a hurry to return and would spend the night there before making the trip back to Paris. Athos was grateful for the man’s generosity in allowing them time to rest at his sister’s home as well as the relatively easy pace he’d set as they’d left Paris behind, still mindful of Porthos’ healing wound; all of them were anxious to be reunited with the Gascon, but none of them were willing to cause the large Musketeer extra pain in order to accomplish the task.

 

Early evening had them arriving at the gates of the Trémaux estate, the trip having taken a little longer due to the frequent breaks they’d taken to allow Porthos to rest. The large man had grumbled each time they’d stopped, but a look from one of the others had him holding his words, grudgingly admitting that his shoulder still pained him and the rests they took did make the journey more bearable.

 

As they guided their horses into the large courtyard, Athos traded wary looks with Treville, seeing in his expression that he’d sensed something as well. The area was completely deserted and, while the workday was nearly over, it was unusual for their surroundings to be so quiet and still. Approaching the centre of the courtyard, Aramis gave a low whistle, pointing to the stained ground up ahead. While a good deal of liquid had been absorbed back into the dirt-covered ground, there was still more than enough remaining for the Musketeers to recognize that someone had bled there – recently and a lot.

 

Athos pulled his horse to a stop, dismounting and then taking his weapons, holding his pistol at the ready as he moved toward the steps that led to the home’s double doors. Behind him, he could hear the others doing the same, Porthos’ muted grunt letting him know when the man was out of his saddle. They moved forward cautiously, scanning the area around them but still spotting no other signs of life.

 

Treville was beside him now and Athos knew the man was restraining himself, his desire to simply run inside to locate his sister plainly written on his face. The front doors swung open easily at their touch and Athos peered carefully inside before taking a step through the doorway, the Captain immediately following. The men stood, observing the large foyer and, without a word, split up to investigate in four different directions.

 

As the men explored, they were struck once again by the eerie stillness surrounding them. The estate was not overly large but would still employ a fair number of servants to keep it functioning, yet there was no sign of anyone around them. The low sound of voices caught Porthos’ attention and he edged closer to the room, listening intently. He could make out a woman’s voice but not any of the words, and he retraced his steps to the foyer, letting out a quiet whistle to get the others’ attention. Seconds later he spotted them moving towards him and he led the way back, Treville mouthing “sitting room” to the others as they gathered around the door.

 

Porthos attempted to step forward, intending to look inside, but Aramis’ hand on his shoulder stopped him and he allowed Athos to complete the action instead. After a quick look, he motioned forward with his head and the men followed him in, Treville lowering his pistol partway inside the room as he recognized his sister sitting next to a chaise where a man laid.

 

“Brigitte,” Treville called, his voice full of relief and worry, telegraphing clearly the strain of the last few minutes since their arrival.

 

“Jean-Armand,” she cried, rising immediately from her chair and moving forward to meet him, falling into his arms, her body racked with sobs.

 

The inseparables traded glances as they watched Treville’s reunion with his sister, the man doing his best to comfort the woman as the others looked warily at the wounded man on the chaise. Treville caught Aramis’ questioning look over the top of Brigitte’s head and gave a small nod, the medic moving forward to take his sister’s seat.

 

“May I?” he asked the man on the chaise, hand already reaching for the bloodied leg. At the man’s nod, he pulled out his main gauche, slipping the blade into the hole left by the ball and slicing his breeches to gain access to the wound. Grimacing in sympathy he looked up, “I need wine or brandy and my supplies.” Trusting that his friends would do as they’d been asked, he picked up the cloth that Brigitte must have been using earlier, and wet it again in the already rust-colored water, wiping at the wound so he could properly see the extent of the damage done. “Is it still in there?”

 

The man winced as he shook his head, “No, it went all the way through.”

 

Aramis gave the man a reassuring smile, “Easier that way, but it does mean that I’ll need to stitch up both wounds.”

 

The man gave a low grunt that might have been acceptance or anticipation of the coming pain but, either way, Aramis continued his ministrations, managing to roll the man slightly to gain access to the exit wound. By the time he’d finished his examination, his friends had returned, Porthos placing a bottle on the table next to him while Athos laid out his needle and thread. Aramis gave the man a serious look as he asked, “Will you be able to stand the pain?”

 

The man gave a shaky nod, hand reaching for the bottle which Aramis helped him with, taking several deep swallows before releasing it. “Thank you,” he breathed out.

 

Aramis gave a slight smile, “Ready?”

 

At the man’s nod, Aramis made his first stitch, the man tensing as the needle penetrated his skin, the thread sickeningly tugging at the flesh as the edges of the wound were pulled close. Moments later, Brigitte had returned to the man’s side, placing a hand in his, murmuring soft assurances. As Aramis continued his work, Athos and Porthos moved to stand with the Captain, inquiring looks on their faces. “Gilles. He’s been with the family for years and takes care of nearly all aspects of running the estate – my brother-in-law’s right-hand man as it were.”

 

Athos tried to be patient, but the situation they’d discovered was eating away at his already raw nerves, “d’Artagnan?”

 

Treville shook his head, “I don’t know anything yet. Let’s allow Aramis to finish and then see what they can tell us.”

 

Athos clamped his jaw down firmly, holding back the response that threatened but recognizing that angry words would add nothing to their circumstances. Instead, he moved to look out the window, noticing that their horses were still outside where they’d left them. With a wave to Porthos, he walked out of the room, intending to feed and water the animals. Treville glanced up as the two men left but he made no move to stop them, understanding Athos’ need for information pertaining to their missing man and the frustration he was now trying to quell.

 

With Brigitte’s help, Aramis had soon closed both wounds and wrapped them tightly in clean linen, the man laying back with his eyes closed, breathing raggedly at the pain he’d endured. The medic wiped his hands and needle on a clean cloth and then rolled up his sewing kit, slipping it into his doublet while Brigitte covered the man with a blanket. Treville came over and took her hand, guiding her to another seating area several feet away but where all of them could sit and talk without disturbing their now dozing patient. Athos and Porthos joined them within minutes and Treville began his inquiry. “Brigitte, what happened here and where is d’Artagnan?”

 

The woman took a bracing breath, her hands folded and twisting in her lap. “I’m so sorry, Jean-Armand. I did my best to keep him safe, really, I did.”

 

The men saw the pleading and sorrow in her eyes and Athos’ breath hitched at her words. “Is he dead?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

 

Brigitte almost jumped at his question, a shocked look on her face. “No,” she cried, “I mean, I don’t think so. He was alive the last time I saw him.”

 

Treville gave a slight tilt of his head, reaching over to clasp his sister’s hands. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”

 

Brigitte gave him a tremulous smile as she nodded. “He and Gilles were walking outside earlier when the men arrived. d’Artagnan was at the bottom of the steps leading to the house when they shot Gilles.” Searching out her brother’s gaze, her voice shook as she explained, “I thought they would kill them both.” Treville squeezed her hands but stayed silent, waiting for her to compose herself enough to continue. “I wasn’t thinking clearly and I ran outside with one of Gilles’ old swords and gave it to d’Artagnan, thinking maybe he could defend himself.”

 

Aramis gave her a smile as he applauded her efforts, “That was a good idea. d’Artagnan is very skilled with a sword.”

 

Brigitte’s face clouded over as she went on, “He was barely able to defeat the first man and, when I saw how much he was struggling, I dragged him into the house and down to the cellar.” The three men’s faces now reflected their confusion, but they held their questions until she’d finished telling her story. “I thought we’d be safe down there but they found us almost at once. They tried to barter, my life for his, but I refused. After that, they left us alone for a while and, at some point I fell asleep.” She turned her gaze to Treville’s again and the men could see the despair in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I never should have allowed myself to rest. When I woke up, he was gone.”

 

“It’s alright, Brigitte,” Treville tried to calm her. “Who were these me?”

 

The woman’s eyes filled with tears as she answered, “Bounty hunters.”

 

Porthos’ reaction was immediate as he said, “But he’s a free man. The real killer confessed yesterday.”

 

Treville shook his head sadly, “Too little time for word to have travelled beyond the city walls.”

 

Aramis looked puzzled and he now sought clarification, “Madame, you’ve stated that d’Artagnan had difficulty defeating his opponent. Was the man that gifted a swordsman?”

 

“No,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “d’Artagnan was hurt several days ago.” At the intensity of the men’s looks, she hurried to explain. “My dog startled the horse he was training and it threw him into a fence. He broke two ribs and suffered a head injury.”

 

“Was he seen by a physician?” Athos questioned, his concern fueled by her words.

 

“Yes,” she nodded. “We bound his ribs but there was nothing we could do about his memory.”

 

Treville leaned forward, grasping onto her last comment, “What do you mean, his memory?”

 

She looked pitiful as she replied, “He lost his memory, Jean-Armand. He had no idea who he was or of his past. I explained to him once we were in the cellar that he was a Musketeer and that you would come for him, but I do not think he believed me.”

 

Athos could hardly contain his need to go chasing after the men who had his protégé, and his hands clenched and unclenched with barely checked emotion. “Madame, how long ago did they leave?”

 

Brigitte shrugged helplessly, “I’m not certain. I woke over an hour ago to find him gone.”

 

“Why did they shoot Gilles?” Aramis questioned, wondering if the man had attempted to prevent them from leaving.

 

 Trémaux’s face was sombre as she replied, “They did not like his answer.”

 

A round of silent communication was shared by the men as they processed her words. If the bounty hunters had shot and left a man to die simply because of his words, then these were dangerous men indeed; things did not bode well for their youngest.

 

“No doubt they are on their way back to Paris. We should set out immediately,” Athos declared, already making motions to rise.

 

Treville hated what he was about to say, but forged ahead regardless, “Athos, we’ll have to wait until morning.” The thunderous look on his lieutenant’s face almost had him regretting his words but he steeled his nerve and continued, “The sun has set and they only have a couple hours’ head start. If d’Artagnan is injured as Brigitte has indicated, he’ll be slowing them down. We’ll spend the night here and set out at first light.” He waited for Athos to argue but a steadying hand from Porthos on his lieutenant’s arm seemed to deflate him and, after several long seconds, the man gave a short nod instead.

 

The Captain returned the nod and then turned his attention back to his sister, “Brigitte, where is everyone?”

 

“I sent them away when the bounty hunters arrived. You’ve always said to trust my instincts. Something about the riders unsettled me so I ordered everyone out the back and told them to stay away until I sent word that it was safe to return,” Brigitte explained.

 

“You did well,” Treville praised. His gaze shifted from his sister to the wounded man on the chaise, and finally roamed over each of his men’s faces. The four of them would take care of his sister and Gilles tonight and then set out in the morning to track the bounty hunters. Assessing the inseparables’ expressions, he almost felt sorry for their prey.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allowing his eyes to slip closed, he was unaware of losing consciousness and falling from the back of the horse, barely missing being stepped on by the animal as he rolled to a boneless stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest in this story. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Maillard was almost obsessive in his determination to place as much distance as possible between himself and the Trémaux estate, his paranoia taking them away from the nearby town via a back road before rejoining the main route to Paris. To regain the time they’d lost due to their circuitous route, they remained on their horses even after the sun had set, the only consolation being that their pace had slowed substantially in deference to the near blackness of their surroundings. When one of the horses stumbled, Maillard finally pulled to a stop, the others moving up to join him, d’Artagnan kept at the rear of their convoy.

 

They looked around but could see little by the sliver of moon that hung above them; fortunately, one of the men found a large branch that he was able to turn into a torch and, under its light, they found a sheltered spot several hundred feet off to the side of the road where they could make camp. d’Artagnan was barely conscious by this point, the dual aches in his head and side competing for his attention, keeping his breaths short and his vision blurry. He’d managed to stay upright for nearly a half-hour and from that point, had begun to slump forward until he was laying along the horse’s neck. While the position was certainly far from comfortable, he found that he didn’t have the energy left to sit up and was at least assured that he would stay on the animal’s back.

 

As the men set up the camp, Maillard approached with another and the two pulled the Gascon from his horse, catching him when his legs folded as soon as his feet touched the ground. Between them, they dragged him to a nearby tree, none too gently setting him down on the ground. His hands were quickly unbound and then retied behind him, pulled tightly around the trunk of the tree. d’Artagnan intermittently panted and coughed against the pain, still disoriented and not fully aware of what was happening. Maillard grabbed his hair, pulling his face upwards as the Gascon blinked, trying valiantly to focus. Apparently satisfied that his prisoner was sufficiently helpless, Maillard released his hold and d’Artagnan’s head dropped back to his chest before he could catch himself, pulling a moan of pain from his throat.

 

Around him, he was vaguely aware of the other men’s movements as a fire was built and food and drink were passed around. d’Artagnan’s misery deepened as he concluded that he was too far away from the fire to benefit from its heat and, while he had little interest in food, his mouth and throat were unpleasantly dry. He shivered a little as his body cooled, still wearing only his thin shirt and robbed of the heat thrown off from his mount. The shiver pulled more coughs from his chest and he desperately tried to still the action as it pulled mercilessly on his ribs. When he’d managed to stop, his eyes were watering with unshed tears in reaction to the pain. He leaned his head back against the tree, keeping his eyes closed as he did his best to even out his breathing, doing all he could to avoid another coughing jag.

 

His mind drifted back to Brigitte and he wondered if she was alright and if she was mad at him for leaving. He regretted not asking her more questions, his curiosity piqued about what she’d told him about his real life. Would it matter to the hangman, he wondered, if he could not remember his crime? He guessed it was unlikely to make any difference. Would anyone mourn his passing or even be there with him when he swung from the noose? Again, unlikely; he couldn’t imagine there being much interest from those he’d known before in wanting to give their support to a disgraced Musketeer.

 

The thought reminded him of Brigitte’s assurances that his Captain had thought him innocent, speaking of his brothers who’d aided his escape. Perhaps there would be someone after all, despite the fact that d’Artagnan had no memory of these men, nor would he recognize them if they came to watch. As such, it was appropriate he thought, that he would end up in an unmarked grave, a man robbed of his future by an alleged murder, and robbed of his past by an unfortunate fall from a horse; a man without a name, other than the one shared by a stranger, and no family to miss him when he was gone. Idly, he recognized the melancholy that he’d fallen victim to, but was unable to find enough energy to care.

 

His gaze drifted back to his captors and he noted that the men seemed to have finished their meal and were now sitting around the fire, talking in low tones. As he watched, one of the men stood and walked toward him, a water skin in his hands, which he tipped to the Gascon’s mouth. d’Artagnan drank greedily until his breath hitched and coughs erupted painfully from his chest. The man gave him an odd look, observing the paleness of his features before walking away. Moments later he’d returned, throwing a blanket over him, even tucking it around his shoulders so it would not slip in the night. “Thank you,” d’Artagnan said breathlessly, revelling in the small amount of warmth that the blanket provided. The man gave a nod and left again, returning to sit with his comrades. Finally warming a little, d’Artagnan decided to stop fighting the fatigue that made his limbs and eyelids heavy; closing his eyes, he was asleep within moments.

* * *

It had been difficult to rest, knowing that d’Artagnan was in the hands of bounty hunters who viewed him as nothing more than a generous payday. Aramis and Porthos had been insistent, however, even threatening to speak with Treville until Athos had finally relented, laying down in the large bed where he and his two friends waited for him, one on either side. The estate house was large enough to contain sufficient rooms for all of them, but they had been inexplicably drawn together, just as they had been on the night when they had given up searching for the missing Gascon. The need to be in each other’s comfort outweighed their physical needs, which resulted in them sharing a room and bed for the night.

 

It would hardly be the first time they’d done so and, while none would readily admit it, each of them slept easier pressed against the warm bodies of their brothers. d’Artagnan had been slow to accept the idea of sleeping in the same bed with them, and had been even more uneasy the first time he’d displaced one of the others, forced into bed due to an injury, thus driving another to sleep on the floor. But the three had been persistent in their efforts, soothing his fears with calming words and soft touches, and showing him through their actions that they would always take care of one another, the simple give and take between them just another demonstration of their deep bond. It was this thought that caused Athos the greatest distress in the early hours of the morning; the fact that d’Artagnan could not even recall their brotherhood, thinking himself alone and condemned. That d’Artagnan’s memory had deserted him was desperate enough, but the fact that he was separated from his brothers, who would normally be there to guide him through his confusion and help him heal, was almost too much to bear.

 

It was this that finally drove Athos from the bed, Porthos opening one eye when the man got up, but then closing it again, deciding that the sleep the older man had gotten was sufficient. Athos moved to sit at the small table, quietly watching as Aramis rolled into the spot he’d vacated, Porthos comfortably settling his injured arm across the other man’s chest. It never ceased to amaze him how well these men fit together and, even more incredibly, completed him; it made d’Artagnan’s absence hurt even more keenly and had him glancing toward the window, grimacing in disappointment when he was greeted by the sight of full darkness, the hour still too early for the sun to be rising.

 

His eyes were gritty and dry, a clear reflection of the lack of rest he’d gotten, not just this past night but for so many days leading up to it as the need to clear the Gascon had consumed him. While he knew that his brothers shared his desire to see d’Artagnan’s innocence proven, he’d felt a profound guilt that he hadn’t been able to protect the boy, understanding better than the other two the politics of court. As such, he saw the young man’s current situation as a direct reflection of his failure to foresee what was happening and to take the appropriate steps that would have the boy safe and with them, instead of in the hands of some ruthless bounty hunters.

 

He scrubbed his hand across his face, sighing deeply at his many failings, promising himself that he would do whatever was necessary to remove d’Artagnan from the others’ grasp and ruin Rochefort so that he could never harm any of his brothers again. He was surprised when he looked up to see the first faint hints of the sun and, with an energy born of desperation, he pushed himself to his feet, moving to dress and prepare to leave, willing to allow his friends a few more minutes of sleep while he got ready.

 

When he’d finished and could find no more ways to distract himself, he returned to the bed to place a hand on each man’s shoulder, calling to them softly to wake. They were quick to do so and were soon looking up at him from their positions on the bed. “Morning has arrived. We have far to travel and a most important task to complete; d’Artagnan will be in our midst before the sun sets.” His declaration had the two men moving and Athos left them to their preparations, already exiting the room to see if Treville was awake, before heading outside to saddle their horses. Now that the new day had arrived, there was no time to waste.

* * *

d’Artagnan had prayed for the bliss of sleep to ease his suffering, but it was not to be. The darkness had brought with it a biting cold, not unusual for the fall months, but cruel when one was sitting on the exposed ground with nothing more than a blanket to keep the chill at bay, and the Gascon did not even have the luxury of curling his arms around himself to retain his meagre heat. The resulting chills had him shivering for most of the night, jarring his aching ribs and pulling coughs from his heavy chest, which was progressively feeling more and more constricted. At one point during the night, one of the bounty hunters had approached him, hissing at him to be quiet, but d’Artagnan could do nothing but moan miserably with the effort to stifle his coughs, swallowing desperately, but ultimately losing the battle against his lungs.

 

He was awake when dawn arrived, head leaning against the tree since he lacked the energy to hold it up. d’Artagnan watched through half-lidded eyes as the men came awake, moving slowly to counteract the stiffness of their limbs, and going about their business to take care of the morning needs and saddle the horses. He groaned as he considered the agony that riding would bring and he could only hope that he would pass out once mounted, providing him a short reprieve from the pain that seemed to have encompassed his entire body.

 

He was startled to feel a hand on his brow and realized belatedly that he’d closed his eyes at some point. Maillard stood above him and he looked almost concerned, making d’Artagnan crinkle his brow in confusion. “What?” he croaked out, his face screwing up in pain as speaking brought on another round of coughing.

 

“Why didn’t you say you were sick?” Maillard asked. 

 

d’Artagnan met his gaze as he replied, “Wasn’t sick.”

 

The bounty hunter sighed in frustration, “Well, you’re sick now. You’d better be able to ride because we’re not stopping for you.”

 

The Gascon was unsurprised at the man’s statement and offered a small nod, “I’ll be fine.” For some reason the words seemed familiar and his face clouded for a moment with the flicker of a memory, but then it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

 

Maillard was speaking again and d’Artagnan forced himself to focus, not in any hurry to return to Paris, but fully aware that his fate rested in this man’s hands. “You’d better be. They want you back dead or alive, but the bounty’s more if you’re alive.”

 

With a last threatening look, the man walked away and d’Artagnan continued to observe the group as they broke camp and finished with the horses. When they were ready, the Gascon was at last untied and it took two men to raise him to his feet and get him into the saddle. The brief exertion had him sweating with effort and then shivering once more as his damp skin cooled in the chill of the morning air.

 

Surprisingly, they left his hands untied and d’Artagnan gratefully pulled the blanket around himself, thankful that he’d been allowed to keep it. Too tired and feeling awful, he didn’t even try to stay upright in the saddle but immediately laid down along the horse’s neck, revelling in the warmth he found there. The even motion of the horse soon lulled him to sleep as he huddled into himself as much as he could, his wheezing breaths growing more painful with every minute that passed.

 

He had no idea how much time had passed when he felt himself being prodded awake and he forced gummy eyelids to raise, looking blearily at the man beside him. It was Maillard and he was saying something, but the Gascon was not yet aware enough to comprehend his words. With a start, he was lifted upwards by his shirt as Maillard raised him to an upright position. The gasp the movement prompted sent d’Artagnan into a coughing fit and he was nearly bent in half again by the time it had ended. Maillard pulled him up once more, this time holding him for a moment to be certain he was steady and then passed him a water skin. d’Artagnan took it with trembling hands and managed several small sips before he had to stop in order to catch his breath. The bounty hunter took the skin from him and continued to examine him. Irritated by the attention, d’Artagnan huffed at him, “What?”

 

“Why did you do it?” At the Gascon’s puzzled expression, Maillard clarified. “Why did you kill the Ambassador?”

 

d’Artagnan looked at him in surprise; this was the first he was hearing about the man he’d supposedly killed. “Dunno,” he said, “don’t remember anything.”

 

“How can you not know?” the bounty hunter pressed, unwilling to accept his prisoner’s answer.

 

He offered a slight shrug, “Hit my head in the accident. Didn’t even remember my name until Madame Trémaux told me.”

 

“And now you’ll hang for a murder you don’t remember and for a reason you can’t recall,” Maillard stated, a mirthless grin settling on his face. “I believe that’s what they call irony.”

 

d’Artagnan threw him a look of disgust, revolted by the fact that this man revelled in his misery. He began to lean forward, intending to lay down once more, but the bounty hunter caught the back of his shirt, stopping him. “What?” he asked irritably.

 

“How are you feeling?” Maillard asked.

 

The Gascon glared back at the man, certain that his only reason for asking was to protect the bounty he’d sworn to collect. Truthfully, d’Artagnan felt terrible. He couldn’t recall every feeling so achy and cold, and he knew that drawing breath was far more difficult than it should be. A part of him prayed that he succumbed to whatever was wrong with him, robbing Maillard of at least part of the price on his head and saving him from death by hanging; although, as he struggled to inhale, he wondered if the experience might not be similar to what he now endured. “Fine,” he gritted out, unwilling to give the bounty hunter an honest answer.

 

Maillard seemed disinclined to believe him and was reaching a hand toward his forehead when one of the others called out to him. “Maillard, riders approaching.”

 

They pulled their horses to a stop, turning to face the road behind them as they waited to get a better look at the advancing group. As they drew closer, Maillard’s keen eyes spotted the blue of the cloaks that fluttered behind the men and knew instinctively that they were Musketeers, likely planning to take back the condemned man. Grabbing the lead of d’Artagnan’s horse, he kicked the flanks of his own mount, moving further down the road and away from both groups of men. “Take care of them,” he called to his comrades as he pushed both horses to move faster, d’Artagnan flopping helplessly forward onto the horse’s neck as the animal’s gait ratcheted up the pain in his side.

 

The Gascon was holding on for dear life, his breaths coming in painful gasps as his cheek pressed into the animal’s neck. At some point, his blanket had fallen, and the air they displaced as they rode slipped wickedly cool tendrils under his shirt, making him shiver as it touched his overheated skin. “Stop,” d’Artagnan pleaded when he had sufficient breath to speak, but Maillard paid him no attention, continuously glancing between the road ahead and the road behind them.

 

The Gascon repeated his words as his vision narrowed dangerously, his breaths coming in shallow puffs that barely met his body’s needs. “Stop.” The bounty hunter was ignorant of his prisoner’s deteriorating condition as he focused on escaping their pursuers and d’Artagnan relaxed more deeply onto the animal’s neck. Allowing his eyes to slip closed, he was unaware of losing consciousness and falling from the back of the horse, barely missing being stepped on by the animal as he rolled to a boneless stop.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos looked up, the despair clear on his face as Aramis crouched awkwardly down beside him, leaning forward to place his ear to the Gascon’s chest. “His lungs are filling with fluid, making it hard for him to breath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the part many of you have been waiting for and d'Artagnan is reunited with the others. Enjoy!

Despite setting a quick pace, Athos still chafed at seeing the empty road stretching out ahead of them. He’d hoped that by now they would have caught up with their quarry, but midday approached and they were still empty-handed. His three companions traded knowing glances every so often, each man taking turns pulling to the front to ride next to Athos, keeping him grounded with conversation or the occasional touch. Athos was aware of what they were doing and, under other circumstances, would have been grateful, but right now his irritation only grew as his anxiety rose with every passing minute.

 

Finally, Aramis’ keen eyes spotted horses ahead, pointing them out to Athos immediately as the two of them were currently in the lead. Athos’ heart leapt and he had to restrain himself from giving in to his first instinct of spurring his horse forward and confronting the men. There were six riders in total and, from Treville’s sister, they’d learned that the bounty hunters were armed and quick to turn to violence. He waited for Treville and Porthos to draw abreast, Aramis’ eyes scanning ahead of them the entire time as they drew closer.

 

All of them could tell when they’d been recognized as two of the horses suddenly broke off from the rest, heading further down the road and away from the approaching Musketeers. A look to Aramis confirmed Athos’ fears – one of the riders had been d’Artagnan. The men pulled their pistols from their holsters, keeping them primed and ready across their laps as they neared. When they were within shouting distance, Treville called out to the men, determined to at least try to negotiate a peaceful outcome. “We are the King’s Musketeers and we order you to stand firm and keep your weapons holstered. Any threatening moves will be met with force.”

 

Still walking the horses forward, each of them felt a rush of adrenaline in anticipation of the coming fight. They understood the Captain’s need to at least attempt to non-violently secure their fourth, but the fact that d’Artagnan had been led away and was already out of their sight only made them more anxious. One of the riders replied to Treville’s hail, “We are bounty hunters and are returning to Paris with an escaped fugitive. You have no right to interfere.”

 

“The man you’ve captured has been cleared of any wrongdoing and we insist you give him over to our custody,” Treville countered. They were almost within pistol range and their fingers itched with the need to fire, ending things swiftly so they could chase after the Gascon. 

 

Again, it was Aramis’ sharp vision that caught the brief motion as one of the bounty hunters began to raise his pistol in preparation to fire. Before the man could even properly aim, the sharpshooter had discharged his weapon, felling the man from his horse. Additional shots followed immediately and momentarily clouded the air as the Musketeers forged ahead, rapidly closing the distance between them. Three of the bounty hunters were still alive, one of whom had been wounded and now lay on the ground, gripping his shoulder in pain. Treville had also been unseated by an errant ball, which had clipped the outside of his left arm, leaving a deep furrow through skin and muscle.

 

The bounty hunters would likely state that they were now evenly matched, three against three, but the Musketeers knew differently as they attacked. Aramis took the opportunity to fire his harquebus at one of the men, cursing softly as the bounty hunter’s horse shifted beneath him, making him miss. He pulled his sword next and charged at the man, the clash of steel sounding almost as loud as the preceding gunshots.

 

Athos had also selected an opponent and the two were circling each other on the ground, the Musketeer attacking with a ferocity born of worry for his protégé. As he parried another strike from the man, he moved his back foot brace himself, not seeing the small rock that lay there and which caused his foot to roll painfully. The movement threw him off balance and his attacker stepped closer at once, slashing at the Musketeer’s side.

 

Athos narrowly blocked the blade as he stumbled to shift his weight, his left ankle protesting and unwilling to hold him. Gritting his teeth, he forced the pain from his mind and pulled his main gauche, flinging it at the man in an underhand throw. The blade flew straight and true and pierced the man’s throat, bringing him to the ground as life fled his body. Athos slumped to the ground, gingerly bringing his left leg in front of him, absently feeling at the sore ankle as he watched the other two duel.

 

Porthos was holding his own, despite the fact that his shoulder was not yet fully healed and, although he was loathe to admit it, still caused him pain. He moved with an economy of motion that let him take advantage of his strength; quick, precise movements that rocked his opponents when they felt the force of his strikes. If one took into consideration his still-healing wound, he was fairly evenly matched, even though it would not have been a contest if he were at full strength. As it was, he was eager to end the fight quickly to save the stress on his shoulder and be in pursuit of the Gascon.

 

A blow from his opponent forced Porthos to lift his arm higher than he was comfortable, pulling a wince of pain from him. He caught the smirk on the bounty hunter’s face and was unsurprised when the man repeated the move twice more, each jarring hit taking more energy than the last to deflect. When the man moved to repeat the action a fourth time, Porthos pulled his dagger and stepped close and under the man’s guard, solidly driving the blade into his attacker’s chest. The man stumbled forward into the Musketeer, Porthos catching his body with disgust as it further pulled on his healing wound, before stepping back and allowing the man to fall to the ground.

 

Aramis had managed to unseat his opponent and had followed shortly afterwards, unable to keep up with the man’s movements while still on his horse. The man was a coward, Aramis decided, as he followed the bounty hunter who seemed to be more interested in running away than in fighting. The man had moved them a fair distance from the others and Aramis began to wonder if he should just let the man go, but then he stopped, and without a moment’s hesitation, threw a small blade in the Musketeer’s direction. Aramis grunted as the knife embedded itself in his thigh, causing him to falter and almost fall.

 

A quick glance at his leg confirmed his suspicions that the blade was small and his wound would be more of an annoyance than anything else. Limping, he moved forward and swung at the bounty hunter, the man nimbly ducking under his blade and bringing his own up to attack. Aramis stumbled out of the way of the sword strike, his injured leg protesting the movement but, he was pleased to discover, continuing to hold his weight. Deciding a quick finish was in order, Aramis advanced with a three-strike combination which he and Athos had honed in practice, and which had the man falling to the ground dead. Wiping his sword on the man’s cloak, Aramis turned and limped back to the others, looking around in satisfaction when he saw that all of the bounty hunters were dead.

 

Porthos was helping Athos mount his horse, although the action pulled a wince from the larger man and Aramis narrowed his eyes dangerously, silently asking where he was hurt. Treville was already mounted and was observing the medic’s pained gait with interest. “Injuries?” Aramis asked as he stood next to his horse, already aware of how painful it would be to lift himself up.

 

“Athos rolled his ankle and the Captain caught a ball across his upper arm,” Porthos readily replied as he pulled himself into the saddle.

 

“And you?” Aramis asked, noting how Porthos was favoring his right arm.

 

“Think my wound might have reopened,” he replied nonchalantly, already having decided that it could be dealt with later. “Your leg?”

 

“Nothing of consequence,” Aramis responded as he grabbed the hilt of the small blade and pulled it free with a gasp. “I trust we’re all of the same mind and would like to go find our young Gascon?”

 

Athos gave a nod of agreement, already spurring his horse into action. Aramis gained his seat quickly, Porthos waiting for him before the two followed their comrades.

* * *

Maillard had been shocked when his prisoner fell from his horse and, despite repeated attempts, he’d been unable to raise the man’s level of awareness enough to get him back in the saddle. He now faced a difficult choice of simply throwing the man across his mount’s back, an action that could prove fatal with his captive’s broken ribs, or standing and negotiating with the Musketeers who, he guessed, were likely to prevail over his less skilled comrades. When he heard the sound of hoof beats approaching, he knew he’d run out of time, and decided he would need to stand his ground. Lifting the young man awkwardly to his feet, Maillard wrapped an arm around the boy’s neck and shoulders, the other placed at d’Artagnan’s throat, resting a sharp blade against the fragile skin.

 

Four riders approached and Maillard smirked in satisfaction at the men’s less than pristine appearance, gladdened that they had at least not emerged unscathed from their encounter with his men. They slowed their horses to a walk and moved forward warily until the distance between them was down to only 3 or 4 metres. “Stop, that’s close enough,” the bounty hunter ordered, already feeling at a disadvantage. “State your business.”

 

Treville once more took the lead as he addressed the man, “That man is a Musketeer and you are ordered to release him, by command of the King.”

 

“Don’t see no King around here,” Maillard sneered. “Besides, I know for a fact this man is a condemned murderer and I’ll be handsomely rewarded when I turn him over to the executioner in Paris.”

 

The Captain shook his head, “No, d’Artagnan was cleared and the real murderer found. You’ll collect nothing for him.”

 

Maillard considered the man’s words, unwilling to give up his prize and concerned that he might share the fate of his men. “Then you won’t mind if I take him back to Paris to confirm what you’ve said.”

 

Aramis eyed d’Artagnan, just as unnerved as the others by his semi-conscious state and the gaunt features of his face. He caught the Captain’s eye and gave a minute shake of his head – whatever was ailing their friend needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later and they didn’t have the luxury of allowing this man to return to Paris before releasing the Gascon to their care. “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. You’ll release him to us now or we’ll take him by force,” Treville declared.

 

Awareness was beginning to seep through the edges of the dark curtain that seemed to have cloaked d’Artagnan’s mind, and he could make out snatches of words around him. With a supreme effort, he forced his eyes open, blinking several times before the four riders in front of him came into focus. Soldiers, his brain supplied, some part of him recognizing the men by their demeanor and the weapons they carried. Idly, he wondered why there were soldiers after them and a flush of panic cut through his chest at the thought that they were here to carry out his sentence, no longer satisfied to wait until he was returned to Paris by the bounty hunter.

 

“If you try to take him, he’ll be dead before you’ve taken two steps toward me,” Maillard stated menacingly, his pressure on the knife increasing, causing a trickle of blood to wind down d’Artagnan’s neck.

 

d’Artagnan tried to make sense of the man’s words, since it truly sounded like they were arguing over him. Drawing as deep a breath as he was able, he put as much strength into his words as he could, desperate that he be heard and the situation resolved. “Let him kill me,” he said hoarsely, swallowing several times to stave off the need to cough. “If it’s this or a hangman’s noose, I’d prefer to have my throat cut.”

 

The expressions on the soldiers’ faces surprised d’Artagnan, one of the men looking as though he might be sick and, for a moment, the Gascon felt a pang of regret for voicing his request.

 

“You heard him,” Maillard jeered, “he’s ready to die. Question is, are you ready to let him?”

 

d'Artagnan continued to observe the soldiers as they considered Maillard’s words and he realized that if they didn’t act soon, the situation would resolve itself shortly on its own, his legs weak and threatening to buckle at any moment, which would bring enough pressure for the knife to fatally cut him. As the thought crossed his mind, he contemplated allowing his body to fall, and caught the minute shaking of one of the soldier’s heads. It was the same man who’d turned pale at his earlier words and it now seemed almost as if the man knew what he was thinking, his bright blue eyes boring into him relentlessly. The realization startled d’Artagnan and he shuddered involuntarily at the implication that these men might actually be trying to help him.

 

“Well, what’s it gonna be?” Maillard called. “You gonna let me leave with him or do I slice his throat so we can all be on our way?”

 

The men traded glances, their anguished expressions still confusing the Gascon as he waited for one of them to speak. His chest constricted with a wet cough and he couldn’t hold it back, but despite the pain it caused, he didn’t miss the minute loosening of Maillard’s hold as the man lifted the knife slightly away from his throat so it didn’t prematurely kill him while he coughed.

 

Feeling the coughing jag coming to an end, he took at last look at the man who’d been staring at him earlier and he let his body go limp, slipping through Maillard’s hands unexpectedly to fall at the man’s feet. As he landed, he could hear the bounty hunter’s cry of astonishment followed seconds later by a shot, but he didn’t have the time to see what was happening as his body rebelled and his airway seemed to be closing up on him. Gasping desperately for air that didn’t want to come, he watched black spots dance in front of his eyes and then, moments later, lost his hold on consciousness.

 

Athos was moving even as d’Artagnan was falling, dismounting gracelessly as his ankle nearly buckled beneath him. With a grunt, he staggered forward, reaching for the boy as Aramis shot over his shoulder, his aim true and striking the bounty hunter’s upper chest, sending him reeling backwards and away from the Gascon. Seconds later he was kneeling at the boy’s side, tapping his cheek with one hand in a desperate attempt to wake him. The skin beneath his hand was hot and Athos could hear the wetness of his breaths, each inhale apparently a struggle with subsequent ones not guaranteed.

 

Athos looked up, the despair clear on his face as Aramis crouched awkwardly down beside him, leaning forward to place his ear to the Gascon’s chest. “His lungs are filling with fluid, making it hard for him to breath.” The look of devastation on Athos’ face had Aramis placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder and hurrying to clarify. “It’s sickness, Athos, not injury. His lungs haven’t been pierced.”

 

Athos released a shaky exhale, knowing well that his protégé would have been beyond saving if a lung had been punctured. “We need to get him somewhere warm where he can be properly tended,” Aramis stated, looking back at Treville.   

 

“We’re roughly halfway between my sister’s house and Paris,” he trailed off, uncertain about which direction they should travel.

 

It was Porthos who spoke up, stating decisively, “We go back. Not everyone in Paris will know that he’s been cleared and we could run into more bounty hunters or guards who want to arrest him.”

 

A quick look between Aramis and the Captain showed they were in agreement with Porthos’ suggestion and, for now, they would avoid returning to Paris until they knew d’Artagnan would be safe. “He’ll need to ride with one of us,” Aramis looked ruefully at the two mounted men, both injured and already down to only one good arm apiece. “He can ride with me,” he decided, but this seemed to pull Athos from his stupor.

 

“No, he’ll ride with me,” Athos stated, already preparing to rise to his feet. Aramis paused a moment before offering a short nod of agreement, understanding that both his friends needed this, even if the Gascon didn’t know it yet.

 

d’Artagnan was completely boneless at this point and the men struggled to get him to his feet, both limping heavily on their injured legs as the extra weight pressed on them uncomfortably. Athos gained his seat first and then helped Aramis place the boy in front of him, allowing the young man to slump against his chest and wrapping an arm around him to keep him steady. Aramis looked down at his still-seeping wound in disgust as he leaned against Athos’ horse. “We need to take care of our wounds first,” he decided, moving slowly toward his own mount to collect his medical supplies.

 

Athos looked down at him, reluctant to waste any more time. As if sensing his hesitation, Aramis waved at him. “Go. I’ll need maybe ten minutes or so to bind everyone’s wounds and we’ll catch up with you. You’ll be moving slower than us anyway so you may as well get a head start.”

 

Athos gave him a small smile of thanks as he wheeled the horse around and began following the road back to the Trémaux estate. “Keep an eye on his breathing,” Aramis called after him.

 

“Alright, who’s first?” the medic asked, pulling bandages from his saddle bag. Neither Treville nor Porthos were in any hurry to have their wounds tended, but both recognized the necessity, the dangers of blood loss and infection too great to ignore. Wearily, they both dismounted and moved closer to Aramis so he wouldn’t have to walk any more than necessary. He gave them both a smile of thanks as he moved toward a small grouping of boulders and lowered himself down to sit, stretching his wounded leg out in front of him.

 

Aramis squinted against the sun, looking between the two men who’d presented themselves and decided to start with Treville. “Captain, if you would sit down here, please.” Treville did as he was asked, already slipping his arm from his doublet. “Porthos, a water skin, please.” The larger man went to do as he’d been asked, while Aramis pulled the Captain’s shirt sleeve away from his wound. With a nod from his commanding officer, he ripped open the hole that the ball had made to expose the furrow in the man’s arm. Holding up a cloth, he waited for Porthos to soak it with water and then carefully cleaned the wound so he could have a better look.

 

“The ball cut a nasty gash along the meat of your arm. It’s really not deep enough for me to stitch so I’ll just have to bind it tightly,” Aramis explained. Another small nod from Treville had him wrapping the gash firmly in clean linen, pulling a low grunt of pain from the man as he finished.

 

“Thank you,” Treville said as he inspected the bandage, rising and moving aside so Porthos could take his place. The larger man handed the water skin to his Captain and then gingerly removed his doublet so Aramis could have access to his shoulder.

 

Aramis pulled his friend’s shirt away from the wound, tutting unhappily at seeing the ripped stitches which had allowed it to reopen. “You need some needlework when we get back.” Porthos grunted, already having guessed that. “For now we’ll just wrap it and you should use that arm as little as possible.” Efficiently, he wiped the blood away from the wound and covered it with a clean bandage, before helping his friend with his doublet. Having finished with both men, Aramis prepared himself to stand but was stopped by Porthos’ hand on his chest.

 

“Forgettin’ something, Aramis?” the large man grinned at him.

 

Aramis huffed as he settled his weight back down on the rock, Treville moving to examine his wound. “There’s not much that can be done other than bandaging it out here, and” he gave the men a warning look, “you’re not cutting my breeches.”

 

The Captain gave an amused smile but agreed, “I’ll bind it for you and you’ll let me have a proper look at it when we’re back.” Aramis nodded and sat patiently as his leg was bandaged, then gratefully accepted Treville’s assistance in getting up. “Do you need help to your horse?”

 

Aramis shook his head, “No, walking isn’t too bad, it’s just getting up that seems to be the issue.” Treville followed him back to his mount and waited patiently while his re-packed his supplies.

 

At Aramis’ questioning look, the Captain motioned toward the saddle. “I assume _getting up_ extends to getting yourself into the saddle.” The medic grimaced but nodded reluctantly, accepting Treville’s assistance in gaining his seat.

 

When they were ready, Treville gave a last look at the dead man they were leaving behind, reminded that four more waited for them up ahead. Sensing his thoughts Porthos told him, “We’ll inform someone in town so they can come out and collect the bodies.” It was not ideal but they didn’t have any more time to spare, all of them concerned about what they would find once they’d properly examined the Gascon who’d been separated from them for the past week.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his anguish, Athos had remained their stoic leader throughout, but the reality of having d’Artagnan back, and yet having him still lost to them with the absence of his memories, seemed to be more than he could stand, and the result had him sobbing quietly in Porthos’ embrace, the larger man simply holding him through his emotional release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great to hear from folks that you enjoyed the boys' reunion in the last chapter. There's one more to go after this one before we reach the end!

Athos gripped the young man in front of him tightly, fearful that if he loosened his grip, the boy might disappear yet again. With d’Artagnan’s body pressed against his chest, Athos could feel every tremble and hard-fought breath the Gascon pulled in and the older man unconsciously found himself matching his breathing to the boy’s, relief accompanying every successful inhale. It was obvious that the young man was very ill and Athos was astounded at his poor condition, wondering at how the boy had managed to damage himself so completely in a relatively short amount of time.

 

At least the Gascon had been returned to them – finally – and his brothers would do everything in their power to see him healthy again. Of course, there was the added challenge of his lost memories, leaving them to heal not only the boy’s body but his mind as well. It was this latter part that scared Athos the most, having faith in Aramis’ abilities to cure the young man’s sickness, but having little idea what could be done about his fractured mind. He’d known of a few others who’d suffered similar fates, usually after suffering head wounds, the trauma inflicted too great to recover from. In only one instance did the man recover his memories, while the others had only splintered recollections of their past, having to build their lives anew from that point forward. But what would remain of the d’Artagnan they knew if he couldn’t remember his past?  

 

He knew that the young man had suffered some significant losses in his life, but surely these were part of what made him the man they loved; his compassion for others and his selflessness, his resolute honor instilled in him by his father - without these, who would he be? Another round of weak coughs emerged from the boy’s chest, and Athos knew that even unconscious the young man continued to suffer.

 

He tucked d’Artagnan’s head more firmly into the crook of his shoulder, murmuring words of comfort into the boy’s ear as he gasped for air. Each wheeze make the steel band around Athos’ heart tighten and he prayed that the young man was strong enough to survive this latest battle. He was pulled from his melancholy thoughts by the sound of horses approaching, and he spared a quick look behind him, confirming that his friends were nearly upon them.

 

Aramis immediately pulled up beside him, casting an appraising look at the young man even as his hand reached out to feel the heat of the boy’s brow, “Has he woken at all?”

 

Athos shook his head, “No, but he’s struggling for every breath.” He moved his eyes to the medic’s, the anguish he felt shining brightly in his eyes as he asked, “Will he survive the trip?”

 

Aramis hated that his friend had posed this question, nothing about illness or injury holding any guarantees, and the most he could offer was an educated guess. “Athos,” he spoke softly, “d’Artagnan has always been a fighter. With our help, I believe he can overcome this also.”

 

Athos gave a small nod, "Is there anything we can do for him to make the trip easier?”

 

Aramis shook his head sadly, “We need to get him back so I can have a proper look at him and there’s a poultice I can make to ease his breathing. Unfortunately, I don’t have any of the herbs I need with me but I’m hopeful that Madame Trémaux will be able to help. Until then, we keep him warm and make sure he keeps breathing.”

 

Athos unconsciously drew the boy tighter to him, drawing his cloak around the boy more firmly, pulling a small smile from the medic. As they travelled, d’Artagnan’s condition remained the same, his breathing still laboured but thankfully no worse, his shivering almost constant as his body fought the fever that raged within him. Athos had refused to allow the boy to ride with anyone else and the three men found themselves possessively clustered around the older Musketeer’s horse, all of them feeling especially protective of their youngest member.

 

It was late afternoon when they spotted the gates of the Trémaux estate and they were grateful to find that normal life had returned, Brigitte obviously having sent for her staff. The men drew up as close to the house as they could, happily handing off the reins to their horses to the stable boy while Athos and Aramis half-carried d’Artagnan inside. The Gascon had roused a little as he’d been moved, and made an effort to walk under his own power, but the demand for more oxygen that the attempt required had him coughing painfully, leaving him hanging limply between the two men once more.

 

Madame Trémaux met them at the door, the relief evident on her face at the men’s return turning quickly to concern when she saw their condition. She led the way upstairs to d’Artagnan’s room, uttering commands to her staff as she asked for warm water, food and drink. Aramis and Athos nearly collapsed on the bed with their charge, the effort the trip had required reawakening their own injuries and making them throb painfully. Athos gave a nod of thanks when the Captain brought a chair over to the bed, Athos pushing himself up for the moment it took to move from the mattress to the seat so he was out of Aramis’ way.

 

Aramis, on the other hand, had no intention of moving from the boy’s side and was already pushing up the bottom of d’Artagnan’s shirt to examine his chest. A harsh inhale had him looking up sharply and making a request for extra pillows to place behind the boy’s back, raising him to a more upright position to ease his breathing. Treville and Porthos worked together to fulfill his request as Aramis grew frustrated with the Gascon’ ripped and filthy shirt. Deciding it could not be salvaged, he pulled out his knife and slit the garment up the middle, letting the two sides fall open to properly reveal the boy’s torso. The bandages wrapped around the young man’s ribs suffered the same fate, and within the moments the Gascon’s damaged torso was revealed.

 

There was heavy bruising, but the worst of it was focused on his left side, and Aramis recalled his earlier examination after the boy’s escape from prison, grimacing at the fact that the ribs had likely broken as a result of the earlier mistreatment he’d suffered at the hands of the guards. He pressed gently along the young man’s flank, confirming that two of the ribs were broken and a third creaked dangerously under his touch, suggesting it was not far behind. Sighing, he sat up, scrubbing a hand across his face while the three men looked at him expectantly.

 

“Aramis,” Porthos prompted.

 

The medic gave a nod as he spoke, “Two broken ribs and possibly another cracked.” He leaned over to listen to the boy’s chest for several seconds before continuing. “I’d guess he’s been taking shallow breaths since this happened, or possibly even since prison,” he said to himself, thinking out loud. “The result is fluid in the lungs and the coughing is his body’s attempt to clear them. I’ll see if I can find the items I need for a poultice which may help, but I think we should have a physician look at him as well.”

 

Brigitte had watched quietly to that point, but now she moved forward, placing a hand on the young man’s brow as she recalled the vibrant boy who’d arrived a week earlier, full of life and nothing like the one who now lay before her. Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m sorry, but the physician in town is dead. I wanted to have him look at Gilles’ leg and was told he’d been murdered.” A shudder ran through her as she explained, “Someone slit his throat and left him in an alley to die.”

 

The men traded knowing looks, the method of his death as well as the timing too much to be a coincidence, suggesting that he might have been the bounty hunters’ source of information. Aramis offered her a smile as he suggested, “Then we should make up the poultice as quickly as possible. Is there an herbalist in town?”

 

“Yes, a good one actually. I’m certain she’ll have everything we need,” Brigitte confirmed.

 

“Then I should go see her at once,” Aramis stated, loathe to leave the boy’s side but recognizing the necessity; Madame Trémaux shook her head.

 

“No, you are injured and obviously needed here. You will write down what you need and I will send someone for it,” Brigitte countered. Aramis gave her a grateful nod of agreement. “And, while we wait, we will tend to your wounds.”

 

Two servants arrived with the items Brigitte had requested and she sent one of them away with Aramis’ list. Meanwhile, Treville and Porthos both stripped out of their shirts, Madame Trémaux giving the latter a put upon look when he hesitated, declaring that she was a married woman and had seen it all before. With a sheepish grin, Porthos accepted her help in removing the garment, allowing her to unbandage and properly clean his shoulder while Aramis tended to the Captain’s arm, grinning at Porthos’ discomfort.

 

When he’d finished, Aramis looked to Athos who hadn’t moved from his seat, and decided to set Brigitte on him next. “Madame, Athos has injured his ankle and it will need to be wrapped. Despite any protests from him to the contrary, his boot will need to be removed. Would you be so kind as to assist him while I stitch Porthos’ shoulder?”

 

Athos threw him a dirty look, despising the idea of removing the boot from his throbbing ankle, but Aramis knew him too well; he might have been able to resist the medic’s attempts to examine his injured limb, but he couldn’t say anything to the Captain’s sister. Sighing, Athos forced a polite smile as he said, “I would be grateful for your assistance, Madame.”

 

In the end, it was not so much assistance as Brigitte doing all of the work while Athos stoically clamped his jaw shut as the lady tugged at his boot, finally managing to pull it free from the swollen limb. She looked at him sheepishly at the gasp the action pulled from him and he forced another smile as he bit down on the inside of his cheek so no further signs of pain escaped him, the ache increasing as circulation retuned to the now unrestricted ankle. Brigitte put the boot down and pointed at his foot with a questioning look, “Would you like me to wrap it for you?”

 

Athos was trying to determine how he could politely decline when Aramis appeared beside him. “Thank you for your help, Madame. I’ll have a look to confirm nothing’s broken and will bind it for him.”

 

Brigitte nodded, moving over to speak with her brother, helping the Captain pull on a clean shirt. Aramis caught Athos’ eye, waiting until he was ready, and then manipulated the sore ankle, confirming a bad sprain but fortunately nothing worse. He bandaged it firmly to support the swollen joint, Athos’ face covered in a light sheen of sweat by the time he’d finished. “Better?” the medic asked as he helped the older man prop his sore foot on the edge of the bed.

 

“Much, thank you,” Athos replied, his face ashen from Aramis’ attentions. “Who do you want to look at your leg?”

 

Aramis hesitated, eyes darting to Brigitte, his discomfort at removing his breeches in front of the Captain’s sister obvious. “Madame, could you please go see if the herbs Aramis requested have arrived?” Athos asked. Brigitte’s eyes drifted to Aramis’ thigh, understanding that his was the only wound which had not yet been treated. With a demure smile, she nodded and left the room.

 

Aramis gave his friend an appreciative look as the Captain appeared at his side, guiding him with a hand on his elbow to a chair and then helping him undress so he had access to the stab wound. The medic had been correct in his assessment that it was not an overly serious injury, but it did require proper cleaning and, when Treville had scrubbed it thoroughly, he added a couple of stitches to keep the wound closed. By the time Madame Trémaux reappeared, Aramis was dressed and sitting at the room’s small table.

 

She carried the herbs he’d requested, along with a mortar and pestle which he quickly put to good use, first crushing the ingredients into a coarse powder and then making them into a thick paste with the addition of water. When he’d finished, the linen he’d covered gave off a pungent odour which Aramis assured them would ease the Gascon’s breathing. The poultice was applied to the young man’s chest, Athos and Porthos helping to hold the boy upright while Aramis wrapped more linen around d’Artagnan’s chest to hold it in place.

 

When they were done, the three seemed at loose ends and Treville interceded, pointing to the food that had been brought earlier. “Eat,” he ordered. “We have no idea how long it will take for d’Artagnan to recover and we need to keep up our strength.” When he was satisfied that they’d all taken a plate of food, he left them to go speak with his sister, guessing that the men would appreciate an opportunity to be alone with their youngest. 

* * *

It was difficult to tell whether the poultice was having any effect, but Aramis continued to change it out every few hours regardless, telling himself that it wasn’t doing any harm. The Gascon had remained unaware of his surroundings, although it was difficult to tell if he was unconscious or asleep, even his regular fits of wet coughing not enough to rouse him fully. Madame Trémaux had returned to the room later that evening, offering to sit with d’Artagnan so the others could have a break, but she was politely refused, each man resolute in their desire to take care of the boy. With a knowing smile on her lips, Brigitte had retreated, promising herself that she would be back in the morning when the men’s fatigue was likely to make them a bit more amenable to sharing the burden of caring for their ailing friend.

 

Athos had intended to remain at the young man’s side throughout the night but a hard glare from Aramis, along with Porthos’ strong arms that forced him from the boy’s side, convinced him to settle on the makeshift pallet they’d made on the floor since none of them were willing to go too far while the Gascon’s health was so fragile. Aramis stayed at d’Artagnan’s side until the early morning hours, wiping his fevered brow, pouring water and tea down his throat whenever he was able, and pulling him forward to thump on his back in an effort to loosen the mass that was now clogging the boy’s lungs, slowly but surely suffocating him.

 

When the first streaks of dawn appeared, the medic’s eyes were red and burning, his misery compounded by the dull throbbing of his thigh, the wound there tender and aching from his body’s lack of proper rest. He looked up at the sound of movement to see Athos rolling from the pallet, removing himself carefully so Porthos would not be disturbed. He brought a blanket with him, clasping it around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill as he hobbled toward the bed and sank down gratefully in one of the chairs that sat there. “How is he?” Athos asked, his eyes taking in the young man’s sallow appearance, noting the harsh sounds of his shallow breaths and the sheen of sweat that covered his face and chest.

 

“He’s fighting, Athos,” Aramis replied. “It would be better if he were awake so we could encourage him to cough more and to take additional water. He’s becoming badly dehydrated and his chest is still heavy with sickness.”

 

As if the young man had heard the medic’s words, he began to cough weakly and Aramis again lifted him forward, holding him with one hand while the other smacked firmly against his back. For a moment, the Gascon seemed to be choking and Aramis reached quickly for a cloth which he held to the young man’s mouth, encouraging him to spit. Aramis was pleased when the boy followed his instructions, grinning widely while Athos tried to contain his look of disgust at the mass that the medic was holding out to him. “This is a good thing, Athos. He needs to clear his lungs if he’s to improve.”

 

Athos nodded absently, his gaze back on d’Artagnan who was laying back against the pillows that held his body nearly upright to ease his breathing. The Gascon’s half-lidded eyes stared back at him and Athos couldn’t help but reach out a hand toward him, stopping when the young man flinched. Pulling his hand back, Athos swallowed and said, “d’Artagnan, it is good to see you awake.” Aramis watched with bated breath for the Gascon’s reaction, remembering that it was not just the boy’s physical wounds that had to be dealt with. The boy remained quiet but continued to observe Athos. “You are safe. We rescued you from the bounty hunters and have returned to Madame Trémaux’s estate. Do you remember any of what happened?”

 

d’Artagnan continued to stare at the older man, struggling against his fluid-filled lungs and the pain of his broken ribs. When the two men had almost given up on receiving an answer, the Gascon gave a single shaky nod. It brought a small smile to Athos’ lips that the boy at least seemed somewhat more aware. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis spoke, drawing the young man’s attention away from Athos, “do you know who we are?”

 

The Gascon licked his cracked lips before he breathed out a single word, “Soldiers.” His eyes began to drift closed and Aramis hurried to speak again before the boy fell asleep.

 

“d’Artagnan,” he coaxed, causing the young man to drag his heavy lids open again, “do you know us?”

 

The Gascon stared at him blankly before shaking his head. Aramis could hear Athos’ sigh of frustration but kept his gaze firmly locked on the young man in front of him, fearful that any lapse in attention would have the boy slipping back asleep. “I am Aramis and he is Athos,” he explained, motioning toward the older man. “Over there is Porthos,” he continued, pointing in the third man’s direction. “We are your fellow Musketeers.”

 

It was difficult to tell if d’Artagnan understood the medic’s words, but his eyes did drift away from Aramis to land on Athos and then Porthos, before returning to rest on the medic’s face. “Brothers,” he said on an exhale, his voice thin and brittle.

 

“Yes,” Aramis smiled again, risking a hand on the Gascon’s arm, the boy’s eyes flitting downwards at the touch. “We are your brothers.”

 

Athos could contain himself no longer, envying the contact that Aramis had achieved with his protégé, and his hand reached forward, landing gently on the boy’s other arm, causing the Gascon to look over at him. “Do you remember us?” he asked, his heart stuttering madly with trepidation.

 

d’Artagnan gave another weak shake of his head, “Brigitte said,” he paused to catch his breath, “brothers would come.”

 

Athos did his best not to let his disappointment show, but a quick glance at the medic’s expression told him he’d failed miserably. He swallowed thickly at the emotion that seemed to be choking him before looking back at the Gascon who was now staring at him with an expression of confusion and curiosity. d’Artagnan had noticed how the older man’s – Athos, he corrected – how Athos’ face had fallen and something in his chest caught in reaction to the man’s despair. He had no idea why he felt this way, but he was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming need to comfort this man, something deep inside telling him that the Musketeer had already suffered too much. Clumsily, he pulled his arm from Athos’ grip, causing the older man to start momentarily, before d’Artagnan managed to place his hand on top of Athos’. “S’alright,” he wheezed, “don’t be sad.”

 

Athos could not speak, astonished at the boy’s attempts to comfort him, a man who he had no knowledge of and was a virtual stranger to him. Instead he nodded numbly, reading d’Artagnan’s need for some sort of reply, and added his other hand on top of the Gascon’s as the boy’s eyes began to close again.

 

“d’Artagnan, I need you to drink before you sleep again,” Aramis interjected.

 

The Gascon’s eyes rolled lazily to the medic, his strength clearly deserting him. He parted his lips obediently, something telling him that he could trust this man, and Aramis held a cup to his mouth. It should have bothered him that he needed help with so simple a task, but d’Artagnan had a strange feeling that this had happened before and he swallowed the cool, sweet liquid that the man poured into his mouth, nearly asleep by the time the cup was removed.

 

Aramis gave Athos a nod of satisfaction at how much water the young man had drank and pushed unsteadily to his feet, his injured leg stiff and protesting the hours he’d spent sitting. Athos watched him stand, unaware that d’Artagnan’s eyes had opened a last time at the medic’s hiss of pain as he’d stood, bringing a small frown to the young man’s face before he finally drifted off.

 

“How is your leg, Aramis,” Athos asked, as his friend limped to the pallet and gingerly lowered himself down.

 

“About as well as yours, I’d imagine,” the medic replied, easing himself back to lie down next to Porthos. He flashed the older man a quick grin as he said, “Save your mother-henning for the boy, Athos, I’ll be fine.” Tugging a blanket around himself, he snuggled closer to the larger man’s warmth and was asleep in moments.  

 

Athos shook his head fondly at the medic’s reply, but made a note to check the wound later to confirm that it was healing well, determined not to let his friend place his own health at risk for the sake of the young man’s. He turned his attention back to the Gascon who looked so young in sleep and almost fragile, making Athos want to wrap him in wool and hide him away from the world which had recently inflicted such pain upon the young man. If they had not intervened, d’Artagnan would have been taken from them by now, the executioner collecting his reward for the removal of a murderer, except in this instance, the world would have contained one less honorable man instead.

 

The thought made Athos’ heart stutter and, for a moment, his vision blurred with unshed tears, and he swiped angrily at his eyes to wipe them away before they could fall. So caught up was he with his dark thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Porthos’ arrival at his side, the man placing a warm hand on his shoulder and Athos found himself leaning back into the man’s touch, drawing strength from his friend as the stress of the past weeks culminated and threatened to overwhelm him.

 

Porthos sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and pulled Athos toward him, not allowing the older man to pull away and instead holding him close. He knew how difficult things had been for all of them, but Athos had felt the Gascon’s conviction and subsequent absence more keenly than all of them, and his suffering had been an exquisite agony as a result.

 

Despite his anguish, Athos had remained their stoic leader throughout, but the reality of having d’Artagnan back, and yet having him still lost to them with the absence of his memories, seemed to be more than he could stand, and the result had him sobbing quietly in Porthos’ embrace, the larger man simply holding him through his emotional release. Neither man noticed d’Artagnan’s eyes partially open to take in the sorrowful scene, a single tear running down his cheek before he returned to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blade had brought him luck, both good and bad, and despite the fact that it had convicted him of treason, d’Artagnan was glad of its return, his mind conjuring the memory of the day he’d received it and he couldn’t help but grin broadly.

Three days passed in a blur for the Musketeers, the mood in the room deteriorating with d’Artagnan’s worsening health, his breathing becoming incredibly even more labored. As the efficacy of his lungs decreased, the Musketeers became increasingly more fearful of the dusky blue that colored his cracked and parted lips, a visual reminder of how badly the boy was struggling. The young man fell into long periods of stillness, punctuated only by his body’s weak attempts to remove the fluid from his lungs, and the bouts of delirium that seemed to be appearing more frequently as his fever rose. The inseparables had become permanent fixtures in the room, afraid to be away for more than a few minutes at a time in case the Gascon’s next harsh inhale was his last.

 

In desperation, Aramis had been convinced to leave the boy’s side just once, travelling into town with one of the lady’s servants who guided him to the former physician’s office to search through the man’s herbs and medicines in an effort to find something that would save their friend’s life. The result was a draught that the medic poured down the young man’s throat with steadfast determination, having located a satchel of fine powder upon reviewing the physician’s personal notes.

 

d’Artagnan was not the only one causing Treville to worry as he watched Aramis’ health decline along with his patient’s, his appetite off due to a mild infection that had set into his wound along with the worry he held for the Gascon. Athos and Porthos did their best to bully and plead with the medic, coaxing him to eat and forcing him away from the boy’s side to sleep, but it was too little for him to properly recover and he continued to feel tired and weak as his body battled a low-grade fever.  

 

“Aramis,” a low voice called, a warm hand on his shoulder, “drink this.” A cup appeared in front of his face and the medic blinked as he tried to focus his bleary eyes. When he accomplished the task, he followed the hand that held the cup, tracing a path along the arm to which it was attached to find the Captain watching him, a look of compassion mixed with concern etched on his face.

 

Aramis took the cup, ignoring the tremble in his hand as he gave Treville a ghost of a smile before drinking the bitter tea, which he knew would help his body fight the infection in his leg. When he’d drained the cup, the Captain removed it from his hand and Porthos was at his other side, gently pulling him upright and helping him to move the few feet to the pallet where he could lay down.

 

Normally the medic would have protested, but when the Captain was involved, he knew he had little option, Athos’ hard but worried stare reinforcing Treville’s unspoken orders. When he was comfortably settled on the pallet, the two men carefully removed the medic’s breeches, gaining access to his injured leg. While Porthos gripped Aramis’ hand in his own, the Captain methodically cleaned the wound, covering it in a salve of Aramis’ own making before wrapping it in clean linen.

 

Athos watched the proceedings from his spot at the Gascon’s side, trusting that the two men would properly care for the Spaniard while he continued to do what little he could for their youngest. d’Artagnan’s condition was too dire for him to be left alone and one of their number was always at his side, ready to help him clear his throat and lungs when he began to choke, and coaxing him to continue his fight against the illness that gripped him, lest he decide to give up and slip away from them.

 

Athos saw Aramis make an aborted effort to stand when the Captain was done, and Porthos’ weight shifted, his grip on the medic’s arm changing from comfort to restraint, preventing him from leaving and compelling him to rest. Aramis’ put-upon sigh brought a hint of a smile to Athos’ face, pleased that the man was finally resting, albeit unwillingly.

 

Porthos settled down beside Aramis, keeping a hand on his friend’s chest while sitting back against the wall, content to watch over his brother and ensure the man didn’t try to get up again too soon. The Captain nodded in satisfaction and withdrew from the room and, within minutes, Athos could hear that both men’s breaths had deepened into sleep. Dragging his eyes back to the Gascon, Athos let his gaze linger on the ill boy’s face, unaware when his eyelids began to droop, eventually closing as he succumbed to his weariness as well.

 

When d’Artagnan’s eyes opened, he was surrounded by stillness, and he languished in the quiet, not attempting any movement and keeping his breathing steady, the threat of another coughing fit always lurking and erupting with every ill-timed movement or hitched breath. It took him several minutes to become sufficiently aware to realize that he was not alone in the room, and the men who had been his constant companions, even through his fevered dreams, were still unwaveringly at his side. The fact that he had not been left alone, even when he had not been aware enough to know any differently, warmed his heart and he took the opportunity to properly look at the men who had rallied around him.

 

Through half-lidded eyes, d’Artagnan observed the man next to him; Athos, the one who’d been sad, and d’Artagnan felt an unexpected pang of guilt at the memory of inadvertently causing the man pain. He continued to stare at the man, noting how his brow furrowed with worry while his eyes seemed almost bruised, darkened by too many days of insufficient rest. The face seemed to waver and blur and d’Artagnan could picture the man speaking to him, his hat perched jauntily, piercing blue eyes gazing out from underneath, _“I’m not the man you’re looking for.”_

 

The thought brought a frown to d’Artagnan’s face and he continued to watch the older man, allowing his mind to drift freely rather than trying to grasp the threads of memory that seemed to be beckoning, yet always remained elusively out of his reach.

 

_“You don’t have to do this. It’s Musketeer business.” Athos’ face was both serious and filled with compassion, offering him the chance to back out of the duel with the Red Guard who waited for him._

_“So you are alive,” Athos said, more statement than question as they met up in the tunnels in search of Vadim._

_“You are a Musketeer in all but name. All you lack is the King’s commission.” The words were meant to reassure and, surprisingly, they did, inspiring a confidence in the young man’s chest that had previously been absent._

_“Get down on your knees, before he changes his mind.” It was an order yet the tone was infused with pride and perhaps a measure of humour, and he’d found himself obeying without a moment’s hesitation, trusting the man who’d spoken implicitly._

_“Accuracy is difficult after three bottles of wine.” Athos tried for levity but his words were filled with worry and guilt, d’Artagnan moving instinctively to assure the man that he wasn’t at fault._

 

The words were confusing and interspersed with different backdrops and people, but the one constant was Athos’ face, his expressions changing but the strength of his gaze never wavering, drawing the Gascon close with its intensity, promising safety and belonging.

 

Startled at the realization that these could be fragments of his lost memories, he swallowed carefully against the urge to cough, letting his eyes drift across the room to where Porthos slept sitting upright against the wall, Aramis lying next to him.

 

_“Now that’s the way to make an entrance,” Aramis’ eyes sparkled with amusement at the Gascon’s declaration._

_“Now for God’s sake, put up your sword,” Porthos’ eyes were dark as he leaned heavily on his blade, pressing it against the two that already held the Gascon’s in place, preventing him from continuing his attack against Athos._

_“What for this time?” Aramis asked pleasantly, cheek still stinging from Constance’s slap as she vented her ire at having been deceived about d’Artagnan’s duel and subsequent imprisonment._

_“The Captain is the finest man I’ve ever met and when it comes down to it, I’d rather be on his side than Marsac’s,” Porthos stated, vehement in his defense of the man regardless of Aramis’ accusations._

_“Porthos, my friend, I think it’s time to go fishing for a patroness,” Aramis smiled broadly as he raised his glass. Porthos’ glass met his in a toast as he replied, “Needs must.”_

The recollections were scattered but unmistakably of these men – his brothers. The ones who had saved him, more than once from what he’d been told, and who now encircled him with unwavering devotion and support, caring for him regardless of his inability to remember them, and he knew in his heart that he would do the same – _had_ done the same - for them.

 

The insight startled him and disturbed the careful control he’d maintained over his breathing, the deeper inhale he inadvertently took enough to catch in his throat and make him cough. Once he’d started, he couldn’t stop, the air seemingly disappearing from his lungs while the ache in his chest drove tears from his eyes as he helplessly struggled to breathe. He had no idea how long he battled for air but, as he managed first one and then another uncertain inhale, the sound of soft words penetrated the haze of fear and pain that held him and he focused on the low, soothing timbre of the man’s voice as he laboured to catch his breath.

 

As his desperate gasps settled, he became aware of the tears that squeezed out from underneath closed lids and the warmth of the body who steadied his own, again inciting feelings of security and love. When he felt strong enough, he unsteadily raised his head from where it rested on Athos’ shoulder, meeting the other man’s troubled gaze as the Musketeer continued to steady him with hands on both biceps.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos spoke tremulously, “are you alright?”  

 

The Gascon wavered for a moment, and Athos eased him back against the pillows where he slumped, exhausted from the coughing fit. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open but forced his lids to rise as he looked at the older man and wheezed, “Athos.”

 

The Musketeer was uncertain about the meaning of the boy’s words and watched as the barest smile appeared on d’Artagnan’s face before he repeated, “Athos.” His eyes closed but the smile remained as he settled back into sleep, the older man still observing him in wonder, attempting to understand what had just happened.

 

His attention was diverted from the Gascon by sounds from the other side of the room where Porthos had risen and was now helping a shaky Aramis to his feet, pulling the medic’s arm over one shoulder and ensuring that the man’s injured leg wasn’t unnecessarily jarred. He helped Aramis to the chair that sat next to d’Artagnan’s bed, the Spaniard leaning forward immediately to place a hand on the young man’s brow, a smile ghosting on his lips as he met his friends’ eyes. “He seems cooler.”

 

Athos released a breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding, the tension that bled from him making him slump in his seat, making him appear somehow smaller than the larger-than-life personality that the man normally conveyed. Behind Aramis, Porthos let a similar sigh escape, giving his head a small shake as he grinned, “’Bout bloody time.”

 

Athos gave a nod in agreement with the larger man’s assessment before shifting his gaze back to the medic, “Does this mean he’ll be alright?”

 

He caught the hesitancy in Aramis’ expression, knowing well that the man did not want to offer false platitudes and that nothing was certain in the lives they led. “It’s a positive sign, Athos,” Aramis finally replied and Athos knew it would have to be enough for now.

 

The Gascon’s condition continued to improve, the bouts of coughing becoming increasingly more frequent as his awareness returned, increasing his pain until he practically wept with every bone-jarring jag. The Musketeers ached with sympathy for the young man’s suffering but Aramis was resolute in his assertion that the coughing had to continue, the risk of a relapse too great if the young man’s lungs did not clear. The intensity and accompanying pain of the boy’s fits had him exhausted and his periods of wakefulness were punctuated by the gasping breaths he heaved following each round of coughs before he fell back asleep, only for the vicious cycle to repeat the next time his chest seized and forced the air from his lungs.

 

Throughout it all, the three men were there to help him, steadying a pillow against his chest to ease the pain of his broken ribs and overtaxed muscles, wiping the sweat from his face and plying him with water and broth. He was still not particularly lucid during these times, his fatigue overwhelming him, but some part of his mind recognized their presence and was soothed by it.

 

When d'Artagnan next opened his gummy eyes, a new face was at his side, the Captain smiling at seeing him awake. He pitched his voice lowly, not wanting to disturb any of the men who were finally resting, as he brought a cup to the young man’s lips and ordered him to drink. The water was cool and refreshing and d’Artagnan was certain he’d never tasted anything as sweet. The look of bliss on his face must have given him away and he saw Treville’s smile widen as a result. “It’s good to see you feeling better, d’Artagnan,” the Captain stated, putting the empty cup on the bedside table as he noted the Gascon’s clearer eyes, no longer bright with fever.

 

d'Artagnan swallowed in preparation to speak, but the Captain rested his hand lightly against his chest, giving his head a small shake, “Don’t try to talk. It’ll likely start another coughing fit and I’d guess you’d like to avoid that for as long as possible.”

 

The Gascon offered a small smile and a nod, indicating his agreement, but was not so easily put off. “Others?” he said, shocked at how weak his voice sounded and how the act of speaking caused his throat to feel as though he’d swallowed crushed glass.

 

Seeing d’Artagnan’s wince, Treville refilled the water cup and helped him have another drink before replying. “They’re fine, but exhausted. Finally managed to get them to rest,” he said as he motioned to the other side of the room where the three were tangled together on the floor. The sight brought a grin to the Gascon’s lips and Treville looked at him in open curiosity, the boy’s reaction surprising him. “d’Artagnan,” he began, the young man bringing his gaze back, “do you remember them?”

 

Again, d’Artagnan took a moment to swallow, preparing himself for the pain of speaking and considering his answer carefully so he could reply with an economy of words. “Remembered some,” he breathed out, pausing to carefully inhale. “Still confusing,” he whispered, eyes drifting to the three men, “my brothers.” Treville nodded, placing his hand on the Gascon’s arm and giving it a squeeze, letting him know that he’d understood.

 

“It may take some time but I’m certain the rest will come back to you,” the Captain stated, confident now that he would soon have his four best men back. “Of course, you’ll have to put up with three very overprotective brothers while you’re recovering,” Treville teased with a hint of humour. “And perhaps one slightly concerned Captain,” he allowed, a heartbeat later.

 

d’Artagnan’s grin simply widened at the man’s words and Treville could see him collecting himself to speak again, “Was ready to die,” he stated, the words quiet but clear and leaving no room for misinterpretation, bringing a shadow to the Captain’s face. The Gascon gave his head a small shake at Treville’s expression, “Family saved me.”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes drifted to the end of the bed where Athos now stood, Porthos and Aramis moving to join him as the older man interpreted the Gascon’s words. “You are our brother and we saved you, just as you have saved us in the past.” The confusion on Treville’s face dropped away as d’Artagnan tilted is head at Athos’ words. “You remember,” Athos cast the words on an exhale, almost fearing to voice them, lest they be proven false. Once more, d’Artagnan smiled, his eyes reflecting his mentor’s feelings at the joy of having his memories return.

 

The statement brought Aramis and Porthos closer, both men needing their own confirmation of Athos’ statement, “Is that right, lad, do you remember?” Porthos asked, the hesitant tone so unlike the normally outgoing and confident man.  

 

“Some,” d’Artagnan replied, lifting a hand to the base of his throat as if trying to quell the fire that seemed to burn there. Noticing his discomfort, Treville brought the water cup forward again, helping the young man take several sips before pulling it away.

 

The Musketeers’ eyes moved to Aramis, seeking further validation that the Gascon would recover. “This is a very good sign,” the medic stated, hand reaching for d’Artagnan’s brow, intent on checking his patient.

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the familiar behaviour, his reaction not missed by anyone and providing further proof that his memories were returning. “As I said, d’Artagnan, overprotective brothers,” Treville reminded him, the fondness obvious in his tone.

 

The Captains word’s pulled laughter from his friends and the Gascon gave a small shrug, for now, happy to bask in the attention and care he was receiving, truly unable to think of any place he’d rather be than surrounded by the comfort of his brothers.

* * *

The Captain left the following day, no longer able to be away from his duties at the garrison. He left with an order to remain at his sister’s house until the four were healthy enough to ride and with a promise that he would ensure that the news of d’Artagnan’s innocence was shared as widely as possible, removing the threat of others trying to capture and bring him to justice for his crime.

 

d’Artagnan continued to improve, as did the others, and three days after Treville had departed, Aramis pronounced the young man fit to travel. The news was both welcome and terrifying at the same time, the Gascon eager to return to some sort of normalcy but still wary of being accused once more of the Ambassador’s death. His friends reassured him as best as they could but all three knew that only time would ease his remaining fears.

 

The sun was shining the morning of their departure, and Athos and Porthos had gone ahead to pack their supplies while Aramis helped d’Artagnan get dressed. The Gascon was still terribly weak and struggled to catch his breath after the most minor exertions, but the medic was satisfied that he was healing and would recover. When they finally arrived outside, d’Artagnan leaning heavily on Aramis’ shoulder, their friends and the horses stood waiting for them in the courtyard. The young man’s eyes drifted past them, remembering the spot where Gilles had fallen after he’d been shot before drifting back to see the man standing whole and hale next to Brigitte and the two Musketeers.

 

He began to shuffle forward, Aramis moving with him until they were standing in front of their hosts. With a trembling hand, d’Artagnan gripped Gilles’ arm, speaking lowly so he didn’t aggravate his sore chest and throat, “Thank you.”

 

Gilles had an embarrassed grin on his face as he returned the boy’s hold, “If you ever get tired of being a Musketeer, come back here and I’ll put you to work with the horses. You’ve got a natural talent with them.”

 

d’Artagnan offered a small nod along with a shy grin before releasing the man and turning his gaze to Treville’s sister. Brigitte was looking at him fondly, the smile on her face at odds with the moisture in her eyes. Before he could speak, she stepped forward, encircling him in a gentle hug as she whispered in his ear, “Take care of yourself and know that you will always have your family looking out for you.”

 

When she released him, he grinned at her, “Thank you for everything. I will never be able to express how much I appreciate all that you’ve done for me.”

 

Her smile broadened as she huffed, “Nonsense, I was simply doing a favour for my brother and for the honorable men he leads. Now, you’d best be on your way.” She lifted a hand to swipe at the tears that threatened, throwing him a last fond look before she and Gilles walked away.

 

Athos stepped into the space they’d vacated, a somewhat serious expression on his face. “d’Artagnan, a Musketeer should never be without his weapons and it was careless of you to misplace yours.”

 

The Gascon’s face clouded in confusion, having been told the story of how his weapons had been used to implicate him in the Ambassador’s death. “What?” he began, only to stop as Athos lifted his hands which held a belt, sword and dagger. “You found them?” he breathed out, recognizing them instinctively as belonging to him.

 

Athos’ lips quirked affectionately as he explained, “The Captain ensured their recovery once your name had been cleared and brought them along. No doubt, he realized as well as us how much trouble you’re able to find and that you should not face it unarmed.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face reflected the joy he felt at having his possessions returned and he reached out to take the dagger from Athos’ hand, eyeing it closely as his thumb traced its engraved surface. “Thank you,” he breathed, Athos giving a small nod in return. The blade had brought him luck, both good and bad, and despite the fact that it had convicted him of treason, d’Artagnan was glad of its return, his mind conjuring the memory of the day he’d received it and he couldn’t help but grin broadly. Looking at each of his friends in turn, he said, “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm sad to reach the end of another story and am grateful for the support of readers along the way as well as tinadp's help with proofreading. Thank you to those who chose to comment and leave kudos and I look forward to being back with another story soon.


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